


Loving Gin

by zeesmuse



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeesmuse/pseuds/zeesmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Armitage has on occasion been asked if he could ask anything of anyone, what would it be? His response has always been - he'd like to talk to Tolkien and ask him - what of Thorin's beloved? His princess? What happened to her?</p><p>In my headcanon, he had a beloved. Her name was Gin</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King under the Mountain

**_Timeline:_** Spans from before the Flight from the Lonely Mountain to 75 years before The Hobbit. 

 

****

Loving Gin 

****

Prologue 

****

The King beneath the Mountains 

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/01LovingGincover1_zps8d59cf4b.jpg.html)  


****

~~~...~~~ 

Love's tendrils round the heart doth twine, 

As round the oak doth cling the vine. 

Ardelia Cotton Barton 

****

~~~...~~~ 

****

Prelude 

_According to legend, there once was a race of beings, miners, master craftsmen of stone and ore, beloved children of the god of metal and earth, Aulë, The Smith, or Mahal to those whom he made. And according to legend, a line of his children ruled under the Mountain for generations and generations, a powerful kingdom to the east._

_Legends whisper in the shadows that one of the last princes of the line of Durin was a fierce warrior, a mighty smith in his own right, whose heart was as hard as the tree he was named after._

_But this is not so._

_For those who are aged beyond measure who remember such perilous times recall the one he loved, who softened him, and was more precious to him than gold or jewels._

_They dare not speak her name._

****

~~~...~~~ 

_Time: 74 years before the retaking of Erebor_

 

Thorin thought his heart would drop from his body.

Truly, he prayed for it, begged Mahal to take him, end all of this. 

But Mahal, in his infinite wisdom, did not answer. 

For the past three hours, he sat, staring at the stone. Several times, he put his hands on it, on the surface, tracing the Dwarvish lettering he himself painstaking carved on the top.

****

Megin - Sváss við Thorin 

The stone was cold, hard and for not the first time, he regretted not sending her down into the pits, the fires of the forge, as many of their brethren preferred, to allow the fire, the Great Smith to claim her and reforge her.

_She might have been the renewed Arkenstone..._

But no, he could not bear to part with her, could not begin to...

Instead, he placed her in this cold bed, hard as himself, to sleep until he joined her. And then...

"Thorin." A gentle hand placed itself on his shoulder. "Please. You can do no more. Come home. You must rest. You must-"

"Dís?"

She squeezed. "Fili is worried."

"Fili is a child."

The dwarf-lass behind him smiled, albeit an unhappy one. She was a softer version of her brother, especially around the eyes and her hair. "Yes, he is. But he loves you." She did not remind her brother that her eldest son was his heir. That is unless he remarried and, truth be told, she honestly did not see that happening for many years, if ever. 

"Dís, I would ask a favor of you." He still had not looked at her and this bothered Dís. "When I die-"

"Thorin-"

"When. I. Die," he gritted, speaking over her, his hand now covering hers, "bring me here. Bring me here, wrap us together, and send both of us down into the fires of the mountain forge together. Or bring her to me, if it is possible."

It was quiet for a time, the only sound of both dwarves breathing. Finally.

"Aye. If I can, I will. I will try. I promise." The two stood there that way for a moment, before she tried again. "Thorin, please. You can do no more."

Finally, her brother looked at her, lines, pain not there a week ago, now etched in his face. As his sister stroked a lock of hair away from his cheek, she noticed a ribbon of steel gray through it, a thread that had not been there days hence. "I cannot leave her alone in this cold bed. Not yet." It was a bare whisper. Gin hated the cold, could not stand it and Thorin had wrapped her and wrapped her in many furs. It was a wonder they managed to get the lid on her tomb. "Once I leave her in this place, it is over. There is no turning back. Please," he blinked rapidly, finally showing weakness, that which he abhorred, "this place is so cold. Leave me and let me sit with my memories." 

Dís swallowed hard. It hurt to see her beloved eldest brother in this state. Finally, she relented. "For a little while, Thorin. Do not," she admonished, "make me send Kili after you." With that, she turned and did as her brother asked, leaving him alone with the body of his beloved wife...

And the memories he did not wish to forget.

_tbc_

 

_Megin - Sváss Við Thorin:_ Megin - Beloved to Thorin


	2. 01 - The King of Carven Stone

_**Chapter 01** _

_**The King of Carven Stone** _

_Human age equivalent - infant_

'Tis said when Mahal created his children, he created them with great things in mind; great strength, great prowess, great stubbornness, and great love for the earth surrounding them. He yearned for children of his own to share and teach his love of metal-crafting, his love of the heat of the smithy.

And unbeknownst to him, his wife, Yavannah, kissed each and every one of them upon their birth as they drew their first breath, and whispered in their ears things the Dwarves remembered well into their long years, but spoke not of to any breathing thing. 'Twas a secret between each one and the wife of the Maker. She treasured them, much as her husband did, because she saw her husband in each and every one.

Especially his stubbornness.

For the Dwarves had long memories and, despite their pugnaciousness, clung to the secrets and endearments sighed into them when they first took breath. 

In particular was what was whispered to one babe as she slipped from her mother's body.  
 _  
You will love him, when no one else loves him or when he thinks no one else loves him and is alone. He will be a fine Dwarf-Prince, but you must keep him from succumbing to that which plagues his line and remind him what is truly important._

Their mothers knew from the moment both were laid in Thorin's cradle together to nap, while they talked of things, mothering things, birth stories - for surely no female had a worse time birthing a babe than the woman who gave birth - that they were destined to be together.

Both woke at the same time; Megin aware she was in a strange place and Thorin aware his cradle was being invaded by someone else. 

Someone with hair like spun gold and eyes of the blue sapphires that adorned his grandfather's crown. Even at this young age, Thorin, the heir's heir to the throne of Erebor, knew his importance. 

However there was something about the way she - yes, she - smelled. She smelled of flowers and freshness, not of soiled things and puke, which he often smelled of himself. 

But she was in his cradle, his castle, his domain in this dark, underground place. He knitted his brow in ire.

Megin's bottom lip trembled, frightened of this strange place, not seeing her mother nearby, and this other... babe staring at her with his dark hair and grey eyes. Staring at her as if _she_ were an intruder. It was unnerving and her eyes welled up.

Thorin saw what was happening and suddenly the memory of that which was spoken softly to him at his birth...

_...cherish...she is your comfort..._

...came whispering back into him.

He did the only thing that he knew gave him reassurance when his mother's breast was not nearby. He pulled his fist from his lips and clumsily put his thumb in this girl-baby's mouth. 

Megin's eyes grew wide at the intrusion of a strange digit that was not hers. She started to spit it out, because it didn't taste like hers, but realized it was put there for good reason. She found a strange comfort in it, the heart behind it and rather than cry, began instead to suck.

For a time, it was peaceful in that hand carved cradle that had been used for many years to rock many of the line of Durin. However, as she went to sleep, Thorin wished to sleep as well (for all mothers know that in order to grow, a child must sleep) however his thumb was in her mouth. He tried to remove it, unsuccessfully and as he himself grew cranky and restless, Megin returned the favor. 

She stuck her thumb in his mouth. 

And that is how their mothers found them, after exchanging tea and cake. Their babes in a solitary cradle, cuddled together with their thumbs in the other's mouth.

_tbc_


	3. 02 - The Lord of Silver Fountains

_  
**Chapter 02** _

_**The Lord of Silver Fountains** _

_Human years - age 5_

 

"Dýr! You beast! You horrible, horrible, wretched beast!" The little dwarf-girl jumped, her hand stretching, attempting to snatch that which the young dwarfling prince held high above her head. Each time she jumped, he stretched higher, keeping it out of her reach. 

"You show me no respect, Megin," he laughed. He was joined in mirth by his friends, Dwalin and Reka, among others. "I will be King Under the Mountain someday, right?" He nodded once, sounds of affirmation behind him. "And as you do not so much as give me one gram of admiration, I have decided to burn this miserable orc you love so much!" He looked over his shoulder to his friends. "'Twill serve you ri-OUCH!" The dwarf-prince bent over, dropping the doll, in order to clutch his knee.

"Serves you right, you monster!" The child snatched her doll from the ground and cuddled her close, gently plucking dirt from her hair. "Poor Fagr!" Ensuring her darling was unscathed, she shook a short finger at the heir. "You'll never grow a proper beard unless you learn to be nice. My papa said so!"

His friends gasped at the insult. "Why... why... you..."

She pulled herself to her full height - barely two feet - and put both hands on her hips, her doll hanging limply from one hand. "Forað! 'Tis all you are!" Fury was now causing her to shake, tears finally threatening to fall. 

That was the one thing Thorin could not stand. Tears. He really didn't mean it. "Megin, do not cry! I was only teasing because you show no-"

"'Tis Gin!" She brushed the angry tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. "My name is Gin! And why should I bow down to the King of the Boars?" With that last insult hurled, she spun, making her dress fly, and ran from the alcove. 

Thorin made to go after her, but a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. The young dwarf looked up to see his grandfather looking down at him.

"You disappoint me, Thorin," Thrór, Thorin's grandfather and The True King Under the Mountain, truly did look most disappointed. 

The last thing Thorin wanted was to displease his grandfather but more so, he did not wish to be embarrassed in front of his friends. His dwarven pride was already growing to massive proportions. Quickly, he looked around this larger than life dwarf, to where they had been standing not minutes before to see...

"Your friends have left you, it seems," Thrór's voice was not the roar most people would think it would be, especially when it came to his eldest grandson. "Reka and his brothers, at least, have, but not Dwalin." He leaned backwards and motioned. "I see you, Dwalin, son of Fundin, son of Farin. Come from behind the rock and deign to walk with us. We shall talk." 

As the young Dwalin slid around from behind his hiding place, Thrór  
leaned over to look at his grandson eye to eye. "A true friend will never leave your side," he winked. He waited until Dwalin joined them before leaning over to that one. "A better friend would not hide behind a rock to see if punishment is given."

"Wasn't hidin'," Dwalin grumbled. "I was planning to rescue him if he needed it."

Thrór chuckled, a deep rumbling sound in his chest. "Aye, that you probably were, Dwalin." He held out his hands, taking each youngling in hand. He turned, taking them into the mountain. Dwarves bowed, stepped aside as Thrór strode through the halls dug out beneath the peak. It dawned on both boys that the people paid no heed to them, but to the giant of a dwarf holding them as if they were his. 

At least, he was a giant to Thorin. 

There was a hidden corridor close to the throne room, the place many - including the great Elven King, Thranduil - paid homage to Thrór and his people - and Thorin's grandfather ushered them through it. He grabbed a torch from the wall nearby and followed them up a winding stairwell, the glow of the small flame lighting their way. 

If the climb winded the elder dwarf, he did not show it (although he privately envied the young for their energy) and did not appear to be out of breath when the three arrived to what appeared to be a long, two-sided balcony. Thrór watched as his grandson and heir, along with his friend, raced to the light, looking out over the mountain and into the city of Dale, a city of men. The two had never seen the horizon from this vantage, and he smiled as the two younglings pointed at the colorful flags and foliage seen from such a great height. For a time, Thrór himself was lost in memory: this very skywalk was where he asked his wife to join with him, mate with him, to be his beloved. It had been a cold winter day, the wind crisp with snow in the air and he had her wrapped in his cloak, enraptured by the feel of her soft beard on his cheek.

Shaking his head and remembering his task, he placed the torch in the sconce just inside the corridor, protecting it from the wind. He strode to the balustrade and leaned against it. "Dwalin. Retrieve the step over in the corner. Thorin, come look." 

With much grunting and effort, Thorin's friend brought the stool over and set it next to the Dwarven King. Both Prince and friend stepped up so they could see down the mountain, Dwalin making sure Thorin was between him and Thrór. For a few minutes, he allowed the two to take in the sheer beauty of the Lonely Mountain, smell the scent of the summer flowers and foliage that grew between the rocks. 

Finally-

"This, someday," he gestured to the peak, "will be yours to rule, to preside over." Thrór protectively put his hand on the dwarfling's shoulder. "Mahal gave our line the right to rule over the people and the mountain." He felt young Thorin swell with pride. "However," he continued, "there is also great responsibility that goes with it."

"Re-spon-si-bil-i-ty." That was a big word for Dwalin to get out. 

"What is 'responsibility'?" 

"Responsibility," Thrór repeated. "It means the dwarves of Erebor depend on us, that the people of Dale expect things from us, to protect them. It means we have a job to do. As king, as a prince from the line of kings," he stared at Thorin with a steely gaze, hard as mithril, making the young prince wither, "it is our responsibility to make sure our people are taken care of, kept safe. They respect us, but we earn that respect every day." 

"But they should respect us."

"Respect is earned, young Thorin." Now came the lesson. "It is not freely given. It never has been and it never will be. Just because you are of the line of Durin and heir to the throne of Erebor, thought it will be several hundred years before you sit on it, Mahal be praised, does not automatically earn you respect." He waited and watched for that bit of information to sink into both young boys' heads. When Thorin's was sufficiently bowed, he continued. "You will not earn the respect of a young girl if you hold her favorite dolly hostage and threaten to sacrifice it to the fires as an orc." Thrór pursed his lips and shook his head. “And she will remember it when both of you are older and you wish to kiss her.”

“EW!” Both dwarflings snarled.

“Why would anyone want to kiss a female?” Dwalin was thoroughly disgusted. Dwalin did not notice his best friend was blushing. 

"'Tis dinner time, young Dwalin." Thrór nodded towards the steps. "Best be on your way before your parents come looking for you. Again." 

"But you're the king." 

"And I have sent you home." He nodded once more. "Go on with you." Quietly, the boy slugged his best playmate in the arm before climbing from the stool and making his way down the stair. Thrór waited until the noise died down before turning to his grandson. "Thorin?"

"I wouldn't have hurt her stupid dolly!" he yelped. "I just wanted her to notice me!" He inhaled before continuing. "She ignores me! Calls me names!" He blinked rapidly. "She called me a dýr, a forað."

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/02YoungGin11_zps5678dfa4.jpg.html)  


"Anything else?"

Thorin jumped from the step stool and kicked a loose stone around. "She said I was King of the Boars," he mumbled.

"Oh my." Thrór murmured. "That was truly harsh."

Thorin look up. "Really? I mean, really," he quickly agreed, "it was truly harsh."

"But deserved." 

Thorin hung his head, his attention returning to worry the stone at his foot. 

"There are other ways to get a lady-dwarf to notice you, Thorin."

"She's no lady," he grumbled.

"And you are not acting like a prince." Oh, that got the King Under the Mountain a furious look, before Thorin's head bent down again. 

"How?" 

"Oh," Thrór had to think hard. How long had it been since he was young and oh so not grown up. "Chase her, pull her braids, but not hard..." Thorin was staring at him in pure disbelief. "Take her flowers, compliment her beard-"

"She doesn't have one, yet," he reminded his grandfather.

"But she will, someday," he chided his grandson, "as will you." Immediately, Thorin's palm went to his cheek, rubbing to see if that elusive stubble had somehow sprouted since he last checked... this morning. 

_No. Not yet._

Grumbling in the lad's stomach - as well as his grandfather's - brought the lecture to a close. Taking Thorin by the hand, Thrór started towards the doorway. "Tomorrow, you will apologize. I suggest you bring her flowers or bring her up here to show her the mountain. Do not think to push her over the railing." 

Thorin snorted. "She'll probably knock me over it herself."

 

_tbc_  
  
 **Gin** \- short for Megin - old Norse for 'Power, Strength, Ability'  
 **Reka** \- Avenge  
 **Dýr** \- Beast  
 **Fagr** \- Fair  
 **forað** \- monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all who are reading. I'm glad you keep coming back for more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N - I want to thank those who are reading and those who have been kind enough to review. I'm glad you're enjoying this.

_**Chapter 03** _

_**Shall come into his own** _

_Age Equivalent - 5 years_

The following year, in the spring, Thorin, desperately seeking some peaceful time alone, wandered outside the Lonely Mountain, sitting quietly among the blooming daffodils and irises, taking in this very different, but beautiful landscape. The Great Elven-King, Thranduil, had come to pay homage to Thorin's grandfather and he had brought his son, Legolas. The Elf-king's son acted as if he feared he would grow a beard or sprout body hair and muscles if he got too close to any of the dwarves, something that amused Dwalin to no end and infuriated Thorin. So truth be told, he sought out the mountainside to calm down and gentle his heart against the not much imagined slight of the elven prince. 

"Watch this, Thorin." Thrór sat down next to him, still in his kingly _Let's-impress-the-elven-company_ armor and robes. He leaned over and plucked a blade of grass from the hill. Placing it between his thumbs, he gently blew, causing it to whistle forlornly. Thorin sat enraptured while his grandfather played somber music on the sliver of greenery in his hands. When he finished, he pointed to the ground. "Pick one, Thorin. You try." 

It took many tries, which left the young dwarf prince frustrated and fussy, but his grandfather was patient and observant, gently coaxing, teaching the youngling until finally, the music between his thumbs sang sweet. The boy puffed up with much pride. Laughter trickled down the peak, the King Under the Mountain and his grandson and eventual heir enjoying each other's company. It ultimately escalated into a tickle war, which Thorin, quite naturally, won. Thrór lay back into the greenery, his grandson straddling him, enamored by the silver chevrons in the elder dwarf's beard. Gently, he fingered them, enthralled by the heaviness. "Someday, I will have a beard just like yours."

"Aye, that you will." Thrór grasped Thorin by the thighs. "And someday, you will be King under the Mountain." 

"But, not anytime soon, thank Mahal!" Laughter broke out again between the two. Eventually, Thorin slid to his grandfather's side and laying on his back, began to finger the happy daffodil next to him, his mind wandering. After some minutes, Thrór pointed, the long train of Elves marching at the top of a hill on the other side of Dale, Thranduil, the Elven King, on his great antlered moose, his son, loping along by his side.

"The Elven Prince upset you." 

Thorin snorted. "A little." 

"A lot," Thrór corrected. 

Now the young dwarf snarled. "Snotty. Thought much of himself." 

"As do you." 

This brought Thorin down a few pegs. "I would not be so rude." 

"Oh, I think you would be very rude." Thrór smiled. "You have much of your father in you." 

"Funny," Thorin blurted, "Papa says I am just like you!" Realizing what he had said, he popped both hands over his mouth, ready to apologize.

Rather than growl at his grandson, Thrór laughed. "Aye, your papa is most correct! We are much alike. Perhaps too much alike!" 

Which set off another tickle war, which again, Thorin won. Settling back down into the clover, Thorin asked a question he had been dying to ask for some time; at least two or three seasons. "Why are the elves so uppity?" He lazily watched the clouds, great puffs of fluffy smoke drifting across the sky. "They act as if they are so much better than us." He pointed. "Look. A dragon!" 

Alarmed, Thrór squinted into the sunlight, before breathing a soft sigh of relief. "Aye. That cloud looks like a skinny firedrake!" He thumped his head against his grandson's. "Pray to Mahal, you never encounter one." 

"I think they are a made up story Papa tells me to make me behave." 

"No," Thrór whispered. "They are very real. Their cousins, the cold-drakes," with this, he spoke from experience, "are equally dangerous. And," he spoke up, much brighter, wanting to leave the reality of a dragon behind him, "Elves are uppity." 

"Why?" 

Thrór nodded his head. He had had this same talk with his sons, with Thorin's father. He had hoped Thorin would ask Thráin, rather than him, but... 

"'Tis a long, long story." 

"I have time." 

"Aye," Thrór mumbled. "The young have all the time in the world." Taking a deep breath, Thrór began. "It began with Ilúvatar, the Supreme Being, when he created the world." 

"I thought Mahal was supreme." 

Thrór made a mock scowl. "Who is telling this story? Me or you?" He waited for his impetuous grandson to settle back down. "Ilúvatar or Eru is 'The One', from who everything came. Ilúvatar created the world, the heavens and the stars. Mahal, or Aulë the Smith as the Elves call him, is one of the Aratar, the eight greatest of the Valar. He created the land, rocks and planted metals and precious gems deep in the earth. He knew Ilúvatar was creating beings - children - to walk the earth. So, in his wisdom, he fashioned seven children of his own, those he would delight in teaching the skills and crafts that he loved so much; mining and metal-working. "

"But only Ilúvatar can breathe life into any creature and he waited until after he breathed life into his own - the Elves and Men. But he did," with this, he pointed his finger at Thorin, stopping his burgeoning rant, "breathe life into the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves." 

"And we are descended from the eldest, Durin the Deadless!" 

"You know what?" 

"What?" 

"I have the smartest grandson in all of Middle Earth!" Thrór chuckled at Thorin's delighted squeal. "Mahal created the pick and the anvil, and he taught his children to take pleasure in the treasures he hid for us to find." 

"Hide and seek with Mahal?" 

Thrór had to laugh at the thought of the mighty and powerful Mahal playing hide and seek with one such as his grandson.

"But why are the Elves so uppity?" 

Thrór's laughter died away. "They have resented us for a long time. They argue that we, the Dwarves, are greedy. But they do not see the weakness they claim we have within themselves." The King Under the Mountain's thoughts drifted like pollen in the wind. "Long have the Dwarves and the Elves not seen eye to eye about many things." 

"They act as if we are beneath them." It was spat, so much vehemence coming from one so young. 

Thrór thought hard for a moment; how to explain thousands of years of mistrust to a small dwarfling. "Mahal created us to be brawny and strong. He made us private and stubborn because he knew we would not dwell with the Elves in their Aman. We had to be physically powerful because our home here at the time of our fathers' births was still under the dominion of Melkor, whose chains were eventually made by Mahal himself." Looking into the blue sky, he murmured, "It was a dangerous time to live. Our ancestors had to be strong enough to survive it." 

Thorin digested all the information his grandfather had told him. He thought perhaps he should be grateful to this Ilúvatar for sparing Mahal's children, the Dwarves, as well as thankful that Mahal had made them sturdy and tough.

"They have their Aman," Thrór continued, "their Undying Lands. I say, let them have it, so long as the mountains, the mines and the very earth itself are left for us." 

"I still think the Elven Prince is snobby." 

Thrór now stood up, brushing the grass and leaves from his stately robes. "I think you are still correct in that." He held out his hand, a large, powerful, steadfast grip, that Thorin found great delight in holding. "Come. Your grandmother was rolling out honey-oat cakes this morning." Thorin began to bounce, as only a young child could - his grandmother's honey-oat cakes were the best tasting in all of Erebor. "I would think they have cooled on the racks by now." Thrór leaned over to whisper conspiratorially. "I will bet you my mithril crown that she would not miss one before dinner." He didn't tell his grandson that Kveykva would smack her husband for snitching a honey-oat cake, but she could deny her only grandson nothing. 

As the two made their way back towards the entrance of the mountain, they heard grunting, followed by a splash and a yelp. Thorin was faster than his grandfather and he crashed through the bushes to find a sight that made him laugh. 

The snow had been melting for a week or two from the top of the mountain and the small stream that meandered on the side was swollen. Much to his amusement, Gin was pulling herself up, soaked to the bone, and looking around for something on the banks, in the water, uncaring that her hair lay dripping about her soaking-wet dress. 

She had been difficult to apologize to the previous year, when Thorin had threatened to sacrifice her doll to the orc-gods. Of course, he was teasing and didn't intend to do so, but that was meaningless. He asked for forgiveness (his grandfather's order), brought her a fist full of dandelions (that was Dwalin's idea), offered to share honey-oak cakes with her (his grandmother's suggestion)...

He had flatly refused his mother's suggestion of offering to carry her disgusting doll for a day. Goodness! He'd never hear the end of it from his friends - especially Reka, who was starting to get on Thorin's childish nerves. 

He had whispered she was beautiful. He had heard his Papa tell his Mama that many times and that always made her sweeter and smile. Sadly, Gin looked at him as if he were a warg and informed him he better not attempt to kiss her. Kissing was disgusting! 

 

He then prayed to Mahal that she wouldn't tell anyone.

So it was with the manners his mother insisted he have, that he swallowed his giggling (not well) and rushed to the young girl-dwarf's side. Helping her from the stream, he realized that she was looking around, becoming more and more distraught by the moment. 

"Fagr! I dropped Fagr!" She didn't seem to be aware of who pulled her from the stream, as she turned back to look, desperation on such tiny features. In Thorin's young eyes, Gin was obviously terrified her beloved toy was washed away. Gazing about, Thorin saw the bright cloth of the doll's dress caught in a branch on the other side of the stream, completely submerged under the water and tangled in a fallen branch. The little dwarrow made for the water again, before being taken in hand by the King Under the Mountain. 

Not really making sure she was steady on the bank, much less realizing she was well in his grandfather's hold, Thorin used the visible rocks to carefully make his way across and over the creek. Several times he stumbled, arms waving, stones wobbling, causing the dwarf prince to bobble franticly before managing to steady himself. He leaned precariously over, clinging unsteadily on to a low-hanging branch and plucked the little rag doll Gin loved so much from the water. As he raised the thing from its trap, the rock he was perched on shifted, causing him to leap into the stream. Frigid cold water overflowed into his boots, which made him scream and Thorin ran as best he could through the knee - high water to the bank. 

"You saved Fagr!" Gin's respect and admiration of Thorin was immediately elevated from forað - a monster - to her forða - her savior. 

Thorin basked in the immediate glow of her smile, bouncing in his boots, causing them to squish and bitter water to ooze over the tops. Holding up the doll, he saw that it was soaked clear through and heavy with fluid. In an attempt to dry it out, he squeezed and to Gin's horror, began to wring water from the waist of the doll.

"NOOOOOOOO!!!!" With a lurch, she jerked from Thrór's grasp, and grabbed the doll from a shocked Thorin. "You'll hurt her!" Young emotions went from one extreme to the other for both young dwarves, as Gin sadly inspected her soaked, injured Fagr and Thorin looked at his grandfather in distress.

Thrór shook his head. _Females. Who would ever understand them? He certainly didn't and Mahal knew he loved his wife_. There were times hunting orcs was preferable to dealing with her. "Come. Both of you are cold and soaked to the skin." He opened his outer robes, beckoning to both children. "Off with your boots and onto mine." 

Thorin knew what that meant! Quickly, he toed his boots off.

"Woolens as well." 

Gin was watching Thorin with a scowl. "What are you doing?" 

He sat down to pull off his stockings. "Taking off my boots and woolens." He snarled back. "Like the king commanded you to!" He stuffed the socks down into the wet boots.

Thrór shut his eyes and shook his head. _'These two are starting off as badly as my beloved Kveykva and I.'_ He forced a smile and spoke gently, his voice a soft rumble. "As your king has requested, young Megin." Funny, Thorin noticed, she didn't bristle when his grandfather called her by her full name. "You are both blue and wet and I would wrap you in my outer robes, let you ride my boots back to Erebor so you would not catch cold, least either of your mothers declare me a bad parent and a worse king." He shook his coat, the fur on his regular clothing now looking warm and inviting. "I say we go to the kitchen and roar like a three - headed beast and just take the honey oat cakes!" 

Which they did, much to the amusement of the dwarf lords and guards along the entrance. 

Kveykva rolled her eyes at the sight of her husband in his state chain mail and robes, invading her kitchen, with two young dwarves, their heads peering from his bejeweled and armored coat, riding his boots and growling and bellowing like a three - headed cold - drake. She did the only thing a Dwarf Queen could do when threatened by such a wretched beast. She threw her hands up in mock horror, begged for mercy and offered them freshly baked sugary cakes to appease their terrible temper. She then let them stuff themselves with the sweets as she knew it would be a losing argument if she tried to stop them. 

_tbc_


	5. 04 - His Crown Shall be Upholden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who is reading and who have left reviews. Thank you so much. I'm the worst about responding on the review board, and I apologize.

_**Chapter 04** _

_**His crown shall be upholden** _

_Human years - age 6_

 

The sun was down, not that it was ever seen inside in this deep in the mountain. The underground city was winding down, dinner was over, the dwelling of Thráin, son of Thrór, was settling in for the night. 

Með, Thráin's beloved, slowly waddled into the main living area and carefully sat in the reclining chaise. She was heavy, large with child, Kveykva swearing this child too, would be a male child; another fine dwarven warrior of Durin's line.

Kveykva had laid hands on many pregnant dwarves and 'saw' the sex, the power, the weaknesses of the child. Her face had darkened for a moment when she laid hands on Með this very morning, but the shade was gone, covered quickly. Með forced herself to dismiss the thought, praying it was only the shadows in the room, playing tricks on an expectant mother. 

She sighed. 

"What is wrong?" Thráin held a missive in his hands. Whether it was a request from Dale, or another town, a king, a ruler, and elf, or a demand, as the ruling Crown Prince of Erebor, second only to his father, the king, it was his current responsibility to keep the paperwork running smoothly. And a city the size of Erebor accrued more than its fair share of paperwork! "Do I need to send for the midwife or my mother-queen?" Með was close to her time, very close. This babe looked to be as large as his brother, who now should lie sleeping in his chambers. 

Should be, but that was another story. 

"'Tis nothing." Með sighed again. 

Thráin threw his scroll down on the table in ire. "Damn it, lass! Either tell me what bothers you so I can fix it or stop this nonsense! Do I need to send for the midwife?" 

"No." She struggled, attempting to lean over to her sewing basket, clothing for the new baby in partial arrays of incompleteness. 

Thráin glared, something he rarely did with his wife. Watching her for a few moments, grasping clumsily at the air above her basket, he stretched, seizing the woven tub, bright colorful skeins of yarn, filling the basket. "Where is Groðkona?" Með had no lap to speak of, so the Prince pulled his footstool over to her chair and lifted her swollen feet onto it. Seeing they were quite larger than normal, he lifted them a bit, settling on the ottoman and placing them in his lap, removed her stockings and began to rub. 

"I sent Ona home for the evening. She has a family of her own to take care of." Now that the basket was settled on her knees, she lifted the needles from the rounds of yarn, and picked up a partially completed sweater. This babe was arriving in a cold season. 

Thráin squeezed a bit tight. "We have discussed this. We have rooms for servants and I do not wish to have to leave you to fetch the midwife when your time comes." 

"Tomorrow," she whispered. She was tired, her belly rock hard and even Thráin was aware that this babe she carried wouldn't be much longer coming into the world. "I just wanted one more night of just us before we were invaded again by servants and healers and your mother and father." 

Thráin continued working on her toes. "Is that why you are in such a melancholy mood?" 

"No," she looked up from her knitting to her husband. "'Tis about Thorin." 

This stopped Thráin from his ministrations. "What?" He looked back at her in shock. "Do you think he won't accept this babe? Become jealous?" He sat up, stretching to his full height. "Did he say something?" 

Með set her knitting on top of her stomach. "Aye, he said something, but not what you think. Certainly not about his new brother or sister." She smiled wanly. "He is growing up too fast, Thráin," she admitted. "In a few days, he will no longer be my baby, our baby, much less a baby. He will have sudden, new responsibilities and I hurt to see that happen." She dropped her head. "You should spend more time with him. He asked me something this evening when I tucked him in that I couldn't answer. I don't know how to answer him." 

"What was it?" Thráin was concerned. This was obviously more than a female's worrying. "What did he ask? What do you wish me to do?" 

"I told him you would speak with him. It is a question a male-dwarfling should ask his father." She nodded towards Thorin's chambers. "He might still be awake." 

Thráin gently set his wife's feet on the footstool and stood up. "I'll go check on our son. See if he's asleep." 

Með nodded and watched as her husband picked up a lamp and left the room. She put a hand to her side and pushed the offending foot back in place. "Just like your brother. You'll have your father's huge feet." 

Thráin moved as softly as possible down the hall. He cracked the door to his son's room open, light from his globe spilling gently over the boy's bed. As his wife expected, Thorin lay, both hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, where glittering gems sparkled like fireflies in the lamp-light. "Thorin?" 

"Yes, Papa?" He didn't move as Thráin came into the room, lit his own lamp and pulling the chair on the wall to his bedside, sat heavily in it. He simply watched his father.

Sometimes, Thráin was jealous of his father, Thrór. At times, it seemed the boy's grandfather, the King Under the Mountain, had a stronger, closer bond with his son than he did. Of course, he knew this was not true, but there were times, he wished he could leave off a day of work to spend time with him. Thrór never seemed to worry about slipping out, to look over his grandson and heir, catch him pulling pigtails and threatening or saving a little dwarf-girl's doll, taking him out in the early spring to see the wildflowers grow and bringing him back, soaking wet. Thorin would talk about those escapades with his grandfather for days afterwards and Thráin wanted some of that bonding for himself. As he settled into the chair, he promised himself, he was going to take that time, time he and Thorin would need, time to reassure him that even with the new babe, he was still important to him and his mother. He was old enough now to take fishing, hunting, time he learned to set a snare for a rabbit...

...tell the difference between bear-spore and warg-spore... and what the stench of an Orc was. 

"Papa?" Thorin's voice was a bit stronger. "Is something wrong?" 

"Oh," he replied with a bit of forced jovialness, "just wanting to talk to you We don't spend enough time together, you and I." Thorin looked at the tall dwarf earnestly. "We need to go fishing soon. Hunting. Spelunking strange caves." He pumped his fist. "You know, Dwarf stuff." 

Thorin nodded. "Aye." His eyes brightened up. "When?" 

"In the spring." He noticed Thorin's look of disappointment. "But we will find things to do together during the winter. With the new baby coming-"

"Mama will be too busy for me." 

Thráin's eyes closed. Með's fear was justified. "Aye, she will be busy, but she will still love you. So will I." Seeing that Thorin was not believing what his father was telling him, he added, "Being a big brother is an important job. You'll have to teach him things. You know, things like-"

"Grandmother's honey oat cakes and sweet nuts!" 

Thráin smiled. "Aye. And making tents under the covers. We will go talk to your grandfather and see if perhaps you can come with me during the day. We'll find some mischief to get into!"

Now Thorin grinned. If anyone knew anything about mischief, it was his grandfather! "Tomorrow?" 

"Aye! Tomorrow!" Thráin stood up and tucking Thorin in a bit tighter, he sat on the edge of the furs. "Thorin. What... did you ask your mother earlier?" 

"You mean the question she said I should ask you?" Damn, if the dwarfling's eyes weren't starting to get heavy. 

"Aye." 

He blinked rapidly several times, the irises changing to a steel gray. ""Tis nothing." 

"Thorin." 

He thought for a moment. "Well, I asked her..." his voice wandered off.

"Aye?" 

Even tucked in, Thráin could see his son steeling himself. He had a look in his eye. "I want to know why my dangly stands straight up when I think about Gin. Or when I see her." 

Thráin gasped for breath. Oh, this was much too soon to be discussing this... "Well... your... dangly is just happy to see her." 

Thorin's brow furrowed. "Happy? But it hurts!" 

Thráin's hand was up. "Yes, I know, but trust me. It's just part of... you being happy to see her." 

Thorin's brow creased further, anger now on the child's face. "Happy? Then I should cut it off as I don't like her a bit!" 

Thráin winced. "Oh, I think you do like her a little bit." He leaned forward, his thumb and forefinger a hair apart. "Perhaps just a wee bit." 

His son sank down in to the furs, his fingers peaking over the edge as he pulled them up to his chin. "Maybe a little," he agreed reluctantly. Thráin pressed the issue, his fingers pushed a bit closer to his son. "A little," the child finally agreed. "So, should I tell her my dangly is happy to see her, even though I am not?" One side of his mouth lifted in a snarl. "She doesn't like me, maybe she'll like my dangly." 

"Noooo." Thráin shook his head. "Say nothing. Just keep this a secret between you and your dangly." Thorin began to yawn and nodded. He rolled over to his side as his father yet again tucked the furs around him closer. "Close your eyes, Thorin, burr innan minn hugr. Mahal is sending his sandr-dwarf to make your eyes heavy." He blew the child's light-globe out and stood in front of the door as his child began to nod off. He slid the door open, ready to ease out.

"Papa?"

"Yes, Thorin?" 

"Does your dangly get happy when you are with Mama?" 

Thráin swallowed hard. "Go to sleep, Thorin." He eased from the room, closing the door behind him. He stood there for some minutes, lamenting that yes, his son was growing up, growing up fast and curious about the things about him. He was jolted from his musings when his wife's voice and shadow fell across the passageway. 

"Thráin? Did you speak to him?" 

"Aye." 

"And?" 

Thráin pumped his fist. "YES! That's my boy!!!!" 

Með's smile was pained. "I am glad you are so proud." Thráin stopped his merriment at the strained sound in her voice and bringing the lamp down, he saw her dress was wet below her waist. "Do you think you can stop for a moment and go get the midwife and your mother?" She inhaled sharply. " 'Tis going to be a long night." 

_tbc_

 

**_burr innan minn hugr_** \- Son-of-my-heart (Son within my heart)  
 _ **sandr-dwarf** _ \- Sanddwarf


	6. 05 - His Harp shall be restung

_**Chapter 05** _

_**His Harp shall be restrung** _

_Age equivalent - 11 human years_

Thorin ran through the Halls under the mountain, excited, joyous. The snows from the mountain had finally retreated, the sun was out, bright and the streams were swollen. Fish! There would be fish for supper! 

If he could catch it! 

His grandmother said to try the throne room, but he wasn't there. There were no guests expected, no Elves; Thranduil wouldn't come until the spring equinox, still some weeks away. He found his father in the gem room, overseeing the newest gems mined. "I don't know, Thorin." Suddenly, his eyebrows drew down. "Wait. I do know. The vaults. Try the vaults." 

This worried Thorin more than he wanted to let on. As of late, his grandfather spent more and more time in the vaults, doing Mahal knew what.

The closer he got to the vaults, so deep within the mountain, the heavier and slower his feet became. As he came to the doors, two dwarven guards stood in front, their long pikes crossed in front. 

"Sorry, Prince Thorin. The king does not wish to be disturbed." 

"But it's me. His grandson." He held up his and his grandfather's fishing poles. "It's spring. We always go fishing in the early spring."

Both shook their heads. Obviously, the king's orders overrode the prince's. 

Thorin backed into the shadows, thinking, wondering....

_Wait! There was a secret entrance into the vaults. It was tight, really an air passage._ But he knew of it...

Quickly he made his way around the corridors, and after leaning the poles against the wall, he shimmied up to the long abandoned passageway. He frightened a rat or two climbing up and smushed a hairy spider with his hand. After much grunting, swearing under his breath, he managed to creep slowly down the air passage and to the vault. 

As he tumbled over the edge, he landed on a tall pile of gold, disturbing the neat stack that cushioned his fall. He slid down the pile with a loud 'oof'.

"Who is there?" Thrór roared and turned the corner, in Thorin's direction. 

"It's just me," Thorin called out. He slid off a boot, shaking gold coins and a few sapphires from it. _Damn, they hurt to walk on!_

"What are you doing here?" Thrór didn't appear to be appeased or particularly happy to see him and that caused Thorin's shoulders to sag. There was a fire of something... not sane... in the Dwarf King's eyes, something that frightened Thorin, deep down.

"It's the first warm day of spring. We always go fishing." Thorin still had that hopeful, child-like smile, one that he would grow out of eventually. 

Thrór turned back to his growing mountain of treasure. "I am very busy."

Thorin was not so easily swayed or distracted. He _was_ his grandfather's grandson and he had his mien. "It will still be here tonight, will it not?" 

 

Thrór stood there for some time, looking at the ever-growing pile of riches. 

"Please?"

For a moment, Thorin was afraid he would send him away, off to greet the spring by himself, but the dwarf turned around and smiled. "You are correct." He pulled off his outer robe and dropped it on a pile, causing the stack of gold to slide and shift. "It will still be here." He held out his arm out to his grandson, who joined him with a happy grin. "We should find your father. I'll bet Thráin hasn't been fishing in a long time." 

As Thorin ran down the corridor to retrieve their fishing poles, Thrór sent a guard to fetch his son and then turned to the remaining guard. "When we leave, locate the air vent my grandson slid through and seal it up." The guard nodded. "Make sure there are no other ways into the vault." He smiled when he heard Thorin come back around the curve of the hall and enveloped him in a huge bear hug. "Now, we'll go catch some trout for your mother to fry up!" 

Neither noticed the lone guard shaking his head in sorrow as the two scurried off.

_tbc_


	7. 06 - His Halls shall echo Golden

_**Chapter 06** _

_**His Halls shall echo Golden** _

_Age equivalent - 16 human years._

 

Thorin was growing to be a handsome, strapping dwarf. 

And all the young female dwarves - and truth be told, the older ones as well - knew it. It didn't matter that he was the Prince, the eventual heir, third direct in line to the throne. They didn't care. Regardless of his status, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, was going to be some lucky dwarf-girl's dream catch and everyone knew it.

Except Gin. 

Which infuriated Thorin to no end, as she was the one he set his eyes on the most. When there was a gathering, he looked for her, sought her out. 

She barely acknowledged him. She liked to dance and spar and debate with Balin, stodgy and old before his time, but beloved to his brother and Thorin himself, to be quite honest.

She arm-wrestled with Dwalin, who claimed he simply liked her cookies and other baked goods and there was nothing more to it.

Dwalin had a sweet-tooth. And she was not his type.

But who or what was Dwalin's type was anyone's guess, including Thorin, who had yet to figure it out.

There was a harvest carnival coming up, in the city of Dale. As with all of the festivals, the dwarves were invited, welcomed, encouraged to attend, join in, and be a part of the festivities. It was a well known fact that dwarves liked to party, and they partied hard. No one could best them for their singing and playing of instruments. Out-drinking them could not be done and woe be to the man who tried. It was something all looked forward to. 

Thorin and Dwalin were especially looking forward to it. For the first time, they would be allowed, even encouraged, to take a date, to find a young dwarf maiden to accompany them. 

In Thorin's case, his father all but ordered him to find a girl, a nice dwarf girl, from a nice dwarf family and not some ...painted human... from the tavern! 

Dwalin found that amusing. But Dwalin found most things amusing these days. He was smiling a lot. Thorin thought it was because he was looking forward to his first Orc Raid, something Thorin himself was looking forward to. 

The two of them were wrestling in the upper caverns, along with several other younger dwarves; Reka and his brothers, Steinn and Ljósta . Much to Thorin's disgust, a large group of females were on the side, supposedly to judge the stronger males, but in actuality, they were openly oogling the sweaty, hard bodies of the young combatants. All save Gin, who sat in a corner, watching the bats hanging in the top of the cavern. 

Thorin tackled Dwalin. "So, have you asked someone to the Harvest Festival?" 

"Aye." Dwalin flipped his friend, almost pinning him in the process. 

"Who?" The Prince slipped free from his friend's meaty grasp and reversed their positions, much to the vocal appreciation of the female populace. 

There was grunting, before Thorin realized his friend was laughing - an evil sound, to be sure. Thorin found their positions reversed, as Dwalin pinned his arms behind his back. 

Again, Thorin sprang free from the hold. His grandfather taught him that for every hold, there is a counter-hold. It was a well-known fact that the older the dwarf, the more tenacious and tougher a warrior he became. Age was a strengthening factor for a dwarf, not a slowing down, as with the humans. The older a dwarf became, the more battle-hardened, stronger, dangerous he became. The greatest warriors in Erebor had steel-gray hair and beards that tucked into their belts. Mahal created them that way because Melkor still walked the earth that was not part of Aman when their Fathers first drew breath. 

Small wonder the Elves thought that Dwarves turned to stone upon their deaths.

Thorin shook his hair back, something he knew impressed the females. Dwalin was bent over, catching his breath, thinking Thorin was backing down for a moment. With a stealthy gleam, Thorin caught him off-guard, knocking him over and pinning him to the mat for the designated count. 

"Not fair!" Dwalin rolled over, wheezing. "You caught me off guard!" 

Thorin held out a hand. "Orcs don't fight fair, my friend!" He pulled his friend up. "Who are you taking to the faire?" 

"A date," Dwalin responded cagily. "Who are you taking?" 

Thorin stretched and scratched the part of his back he could reach. "I'm thinking of asking Gin." 

"Thinking?" Dwalin turned him around and scratched the part his friend was trying to get to. "You haven't asked yet?" 

"No. Should I be in a hurry?" 

Dwalin was staring at him in astonishment. "The faire is in three days. All the girls have dates already." 

Thorin looked back in horror. "All of them?" Not his Gin. Please, Mahal, not his Gin. Everyone knew he was sweet on her. Every one except her, that is. 

"Aye. You might want to ask her now." 

But when Thorin looked up to the spot where he last saw Gin sitting, she was gone.

_**~~~...~~~** _

Thorin wiped down quickly, taking a good deal of the sweat from him. He threw on his tunic and rushed from the arena, looking for her.

"She went that-a-way." Dwalin, still sweaty and shirtless, was leaning against the cavern wall. He pointed towards the gem cutters, where her father worked, in charge of deciding what crafted gems to keep for Erebor and what to sell or give away as gifts. Most men could not tell a true jewel from a simple, but flawed, sparkly.

Rumor had it Thrór was becoming stingy in his elder years. 

Thorin knew it was no rumor. 

"Her father?" 

"That way," Dwalin reiterated, his finger curving to the right, past the gem cutters' cavern and onwards towards the Gate. "Outside." 

Of course, outside. In the gardens. Gin was the strangest lady - well almost lady - dwarf Thorin had ever known. Dwarves liked their caves and caverns, were comfortable and at home in those dark and dank places. Orcs and other foul creatures knew not to follow them into such, because to fight a dwarf in his element was to invite death. 

Fighting a dwarf out of his element was to court death as well, but within a dwarven grotto, death was almost certain. 

Gin bloomed in a garden, in the sunshine. Springtime was her element, her time and she glowed during the harvest. 

And the mountain wild field was where Thorin found her. It was the spot where he and his grandfather came when he was young, to watch the clouds, mock the Elves - that is before his grandfather found more important things to do.

_Like counting and running his fingers through his gold, mithril and precious gems..._

So Thorin found her, plucking weeds and dead things from the ground in that space she deemed hers. He stood watching her; surely she knew he was there, his shadow cast over her. She continued, not noticing or ignoring him, the sound of her scissors clipping and snapping in the breeze.

Probably ignoring him. Of all the dwarf-girls, this one pretended he did not exist and of course, she was the one he wanted.

She probably still blamed him for trying to wring her doll's neck, when he was simply trying to squeeze the water out of her. 

He cleared his throat. 

Twice.

Finally she looked up, shading her eyes. "Thorin?"

All of a sudden, after rehearsing this conversation, practicing in the looking glass, and even on his pet mús, Grarm, much to the amusement of his younger brother and the curled-lipped disgust of his sister, who promptly went and tattled on him (and who got her arse swotted for being a tattle-tale!) his mouth went dry and all words left him. 

"Hi, Gin." He lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers, feeling very, very, very...

_...stupid._

She returned to her weeding and beheading dead flowers. "What brings you outside?" She plucked the dried head from flower rather harshly, causing Thorin to squirm. Thorin could see she was watching him from the side of her face. 

"You." He plopped down next to her. 

Gin never stopped. "I figured you would still be showing off in front of the other dwarrows."

"Keep a secret?" He thought he saw her shrug and took that as an 'aye'. "They're boring." 

Gin's eyes slid sideways for a moment. _Was that shock?_ "That's not very nice." 

Now it was Thorin's turn to shrug. "It's true." Gin returned to her weeding and Thorin felt oddly dismissed. "Why do you do that?" 

"Do what?" 

_Ignore me?_

The truth was difficult, so he stated the obvious. "Tend to the wildflowers?" 

"I planted these!" She flung her scissors to the ground and sat back on her knees, hands at her waist. "I planted them!" She slung her hands out and began to name them, the flowers, the bushes, the vines, rattled them off as easily as his father and grandfather named gems and stones and metals. As Thorin lay back and stretched out to watch her, he realized she took as much joy in her planted things as the rest of the dwarves took pleasure in mining. He found it...

"Odd." 

"What?" He didn't see it, but she smiled to herself.

"That you like to grow things."

"I like to dig in the dirt. You like to dig in the rock. Not really much difference." Gin scooped up a handful of rich soil and showed it to him. "This came from the rock, the trees, the plants. It washed down from the top of the mountain, ash spewed from the Mountain's Deepest Forge."

Thorin spoke up as if speaking to a dwarfling. "If Mahal wanted us to dig in the dirt-"

"Mahal's wife digs in the dirt, Thorin." Gin focus returned to the plat in which she worked. "I suspect he understands, after all, he created us for this world; certainly not for the Elves." Her voice dropped. "Besides, I suspect she loves us too. I hear the elders tell that we get our stubbornness from him. I would think she loves his stubbornness, therefore, she loves ours."

"You make it sound as if we are her children as well." 

Gin raised an eyebrow, smirked at him, and then returned to her gardening. "What do you want, Thorin?"

The princeling rolled over on his side, to face her, his arm cushioned under his head. "What makes you think I want something?" 

"You forget," she whispered coquettishly, "we were cradle-mates." 

"Aw, surely you do not believe that tale our mothers tell." 

"Yes, I do and you do as well." She now shook her garden scissors at him. "I remember well the taste of your thumb!" She leaned to the side. "Bleh! Now, what do you want?"

"You know," Thorin was tracing his fingers in the dirt, "there is a faire in three days." 

"Yes, I know. Who are you taking?" 

A lock of Thorin's hair fell over his eyes. He shook it back over his shoulder. "I'm asking you." 

Gin dropped her gardening tool into the dirt. "Thorin, Reka asked me some days past." 

The prince shrugged. "Of course, you told him no."

"No, I didn't tell him no. I accepted his invitation." 

_Reka? Reka had a nasty, notorious reputation among the male dwarves his age. Many would prefer fight him rather than allow him near their sisters._

Thorin tried not to let his ire or his panic show. "You must tell him you've changed your mind."

"Why?" Gin sat up on her knees and thrust her hands on her hips. "Because you finally came down off your high and mighty throne to ask someone after everyone has been asked? I don't think so!" 

_Mahal! Must the girl be so stubborn?_

"Gin, right now, I don't care if you go with me or not-"

"Well, I'm certainly not going with you!" 

"-but Reka..."

"Reka what?" 

"Reka brags about his... well... you know..."

"His conquests? It's rubbish and I know it for a fact. Pure rubbish and I can take care of myself." She jumped to her feet and grabbing her clippers, prepared to step around Thorin in a huff. Thorin was up as fast as she and he reached out and took ahold of her arm. 

"Gin, please. Don't go with him."

"I will and you can't stop me." She jerked her arm from his grasp. "He's just a braggart!" 

Thorin grabbed her again. "Then why did you agree to go with him if you know what he is?" 

Gin's face screwed up into a livid mask. "Because you hadn't asked me!" With that admission, her face fell. "I waited. I waited and waited for you to ask me and you didn't. So I said yes to Reka." With this, she slugged him hard, angrily. "And to back out now would be rude!" With that she spun and ran down the hill, disappearing around the bend. 

Thorin stood there in shock for the longest time. As he started down the same path, he looked down to find Gin's clippers. He picked them up and after weighing them in his hand, he clutched them to him and took the same path Gin had taken minutes before. 

 

Both Dwalin and Balin met him inside the gate. The sun was going down and only the fact that Dwalin told the guard that the Prince was still out in the gardens, was the only reason it wasn't shut and barred for the evening. 

"Lad, we saw Gin run through here." Balin was, even at a young age, old for his time, wise and insightful. And already a fierce warrior. He had been on two orc raids, distinguishing himself within the party. "The lass looked none too happy." 

"Reka got to her first." Thorin growled. "She won't back out, despite his reputation." He paused for a moment, tapping his booted foot. "I'll just have to shadow her the entire faire."

"And do what?" Dwalin spoke up.

"Make sure he doesn't touch her." With that last bit spat, Thorin stalked into the mountain.

"Brother," Balin whispered, "you have a look in your eyes."

Dwalin grunted.

"A look I dinna like." 

Dwalin's responding grin was slow. Low in his throat, he began to laugh, an wicked sound, before he followed his best friend down the corridor. Balin rubbed his eyes. 

"That's what I was afraid of." 

And then he too, followed his brother and his prince, deep into the Lonely Mountain. 

_tbc_

_grarm_ \- fierce -

_hrodi_ \- snot (Old Norse)


	8. 07 - To song of yore resung

_**Chapter 07** _

_**To song of yore resung** _

_Human Age Equivalent; 16_

 

For the next few days, Thorin sulked about like no one had ever seen. His mother fretted, his siblings stayed away, especially Dís. He had been in such a fowl mood after his talk with Gin, he went straight to his chambers and sat on the edge of his bed, refusing dinner. 

"Your son hasn't eaten!" Með whispered to Thráin. "Do you know what's wrong?" 

"Munuð-kvilla," her husband whispered back, shaking his head mournfully.

She threw her hands up. "Hormones!" 

Thráin nodded his head in sullen agreement. _Humans,_ he thought to himself morosely, _had it easy. They only go through a few hormonal years, unlike the Dwarven twenty-five to thirty!_

The next evening was worse. Thorin came home, scratched, scraped up and bloodied.

"What happened to you, hrodi-flík?" Thorin's brother, Frerin, was unhappy his older brother was to be allowed to wander Dale freely with his friends after dark, while he was still considered a child. Despite the fact Thorin had closed off the opening to his chambers, the door didn't quite shut and Frerin followed him in, much to Thorin's disgust. 

"Shut up." Thorin pulled off his ragged tunic and threw it in the wastebasket, new wounds and bruises now showing.

Seeing the injuries his brother carried, Frerin now grew concerned. "Who'd you get in a fight with?" He sidled up to him, irritation turning to alarm and revenge. "Who cornered you? We'll go after him together!" 

Dís heard the commotion, the whispering going on in Thorin's chambers. She peeked in and gasped. "MAMA!!! Thorin's all beat up!" 

"Mahal," Thorin whispered under his breath. "Remind me to shut and bar the door from now on." 

"Thorin?" The door crashed further open as Með rushed the room. Pushing Frerin aside, she began to inspect her eldest child, no matter that he was not really a child and taller than her. Gently seizing his chin, she turned his face back and forth. "Dís, get me a hot cloth, a pan of hot, soapy water and my healer's kit-"

"Mother!" Thorin jerked his head to the side. "'Tis not that bad." 

"'Tis not that good!" She grabbed him again. "Stop acting like a child and let me look." She turned his face from side to side. "Fernin, go put water on for tea. Now." She waited until she heard the door move. "Something tells me," she lowered her voice, "that this didn't happen in the practice yard wrestling or sparring with practice weapons." She watched as her son's face hardened. "I thought not. Either you and Dwalin had words," Thorin scowled at that, "which I doubt as that one would follow you into the very fires of Mahal's forge, or you came to blows with Balin," Thorin's scowl turned into a snarl, "which I doubt because you revere him as an older brother and you should, or you came to blows with the young dwarf taking Gin to the faire." Thorin now began to howl. "I thought so!" Now she growled angrily. "Fighting! Thorin! You are heir to the throne! A prince!" Thorin turned away from her so she wouldn't see him mimicking her. "I know what you're doing!" Með was not a stupid dwarf, having done the same thing herself, growing up. She knew no punishment she could come up with would faze her son, so she went a step further. "Just wait until your father gets home!" 

So Thorin missed supper, cleaned up, ointments and salves on his face, his arms, his back and drinking nothing but willow bark tea. He sat on the edge of the furs, back to the doorway, glaring the walls into submission. 

He was not aware when his father arrived nor did he hear the door shut behind him. 

"Thorin?" 

"What?" It was sullen, snarling, a foreshadowing of what his voice would become. 

"Turn around, let me look, so I can yell at you like your mother thinks I should and then we can discuss this, dwarf to dwarf." Thorin did as his father bid, most of the bruising hidden in the shade of the room. His eye had now turned black and his look matched it. Thráin inhaled. "Alright." He rolled his eyes. "Ready?" Thorin nodded. Thráin drew in.

"THORIN! HOW COULD YOU!!! YOU ARE A PRINCE OF EREBOR! MY HEIR AND WILL BE KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN SOMEDAY! ENGAGING IN COMMON FIGHTING! ARGH!" Thráin shook his head. "That," he said quietly, "should appease your mother somewhat and make your siblings believe that I am thoroughly disgusted and you are getting your comeuppance." At that, the dwarf came around the furs and sat down next to his son. He saw that the young dwarf-prince's hand was cupped close to his body and in the large palm sat a little grey mús, Thorin casually stroking its head. The act seemed to be calming to his eldest son. Thráin reached over and scratched its ear. "Greetings, Grarm, brave and sturdy warrior!" For a moment, Thorin's mouth lifted in what would pass as an almost smile. "I have seen Reka. His father pulled me out from the sorting room highly aggrieved that Erebor's Prince has no self-control." 

"He started it." 

"So I gathered and so how you would see it. Dwalin and Balin both were quite vocal about the altercation. Yes, I spoke to them." With his son growling, Thráin leaned over and put his head next to Thorin's. "Reka looks bad; you most definitely got the upper hand. I am glad you can fend for yourself in a fight." Thorin started to snicker at the hard won praise, but ended up grimacing for the movement irritated his eye. "Thorin," Thráin continued quietly. "You _are_ a prince of Erebor. When I am king, you _will_ be the Crown Prince and eventually, King." Although he said nothing, with his own father sliding deeper into Dragon Sickness, Thráin feared he would become king sooner than later and the truth was, he had no desire to be king at all. He wasn't sure that he wanted that burden weighing down on his son, either. "You must learn to turn aside from goading, see it for the cry for attention that it is. Yes!" He stopped Thorin's interruption. "He goaded you. He is taking the Dwarf-girl you desire to the faire. You _should_ have asked her sooner. This will be a lesson to you; do not wait when it comes to the object of your affections."

Thorin slumped. "I know, it's just-"

"Reka and his father have been told quite explicitly that Reka's bragging about his so-called exploits are well-known and will not be tolerated. No self-respecting dwarf will tolerate such nonsense and no mature fully grown dwarf will feel the need to brag. In fact, had she had an older brother, he would have administered the beating and I told both of them so." Thráin patted his son on the knee. "I believe Reka's father will have a long talk with him as well. If anyone asks, you were simply tired of his bragging about adventures he hasn't had." As he stood up, Thráin turned to look at his son, who was still stroking the little mús. "Aye. Reka took the harsher beating. Good on you. Be prepared if it backfires in the face of Gin." He took in Thorin's look of shock. "Females are strange. You never know what they are going to think when you defend their honor. I'll tell your mother to send you a slab of beef. You can eat it or put it on your eye." 

And with that, the Dwarf left his son in the growing darkness with his thoughts.

_**~~~...~~~** _

The day of the Faire dawned bright and warm, the promise of a cooling breeze blowing gently in the wind. Reka had stayed out of Thorin's way, his sight.

Thorin was seen in the training arena, taking his ire out on those who chose to challenge him; namely Dwalin, who understood his friend's ire and inner rage. He wrestled with Balin, as well, one who never seemed to let his temper get in the way of his gentle nature. 

Gin would not speak to him at all. She turned her nose up at him and flounced - if dwarves could flounce, that one did - off, her female friends imitating her and following behind her like a row of ducks. 

_So much for defending a female's honor._

When it came time to leave for the faire, Dwalin and Balin were both lagging. Thorin didn't want to go down into Dale alone, but the way they were dragging their booted feet...

Finally - after Thorin threatened to leave them behind - they made their way down the long gangway from the Lonely Mountain towards Dale, Thorin anxious to find Gin and keep an eye on her all night. 

More than once, Balin patted him on the shoulder. "Dinna worry, lad. Gin will be safe t'night." 

"How can you be so sure?" 

Balin nodded ahead, the back of Gin with her parents and her young brother before them. "Looks t'me as if the lassie dinnit have a date after all." 

Thorin followed Balin's pointing, not realizing Dwalin was snickering. "She's alo---" He stopped himself from galloping down the huge granite walkway. This wasn't right. "Balin! What did you do?" he whispered.

"I did nothing, laddie," Balin responded in an undertone. "Dwalin, I think on the other hand..." 

"Dwalin?" It was an accusatory question.

"I have a date waiting for me in Dale." Dwalin tried to break free from his friend and brother. "I best be movin' on."

Thorin grabbed him as he went passed and held fast. "What did you do? And worse, will I be blamed for it?" 

"I'm not thinking, you bake cookies, d'ya now?" 

"Oh no." Balin turned ashen.

"What did you do?" If anything, Thorin's grip became tighter. 

Dwalin stopped pulling and rolled his eyes. "Did y'know that corin seed, when pounded into a mash and heated, turns into a clear liquid and is tasteless?" 

_Corin seed corin seed corin seed corin seeeeee..._ Thorin's jaw dropped when he finally realized. "You made him cookies with corin seed juice baked in?" He popped his hand over his mouth.

"I told 'im Gin made 'em."

Thorin was now pretty giddy. "Oh! He'll never ask her out again!" He started to run ahead, to catch up to Gin, but stopped himself. "Remind me, never to make you angry."

"I've yer back, Thorin. My grandfather has your grandfather's back, my father has your father's back and now I've yer back. Now, off wit' you! Go enjoy yourself!" He shoved Thorin towards Gin. He and his brother watched as Thorin bounced ahead, up to Gin and her family and then after exchanging pleasantries, moved on ahead with Gin.

"How much corin seed did y'put inna mix?" 

"I replaced the water wit' it." 

Balin was horrified. "Great Mahal's Anvil! That much will give him the galloping shites!" 

"And then some." Dwalin was completely unapologetic. "Thorin won't worry, yew kin enjoy yerself an' I," he rubbed his hands together, "have someone waitin' on me." With that, the young, burly dwarf took off.

Balin watched him take off. "I have a feelin' our parents 'twill not be pleased."

_**~~~...~~~** _

The food was plenty, the mead and ale was heady, and while the younger ones were tuckered out and starting to whine, those with a loved one, whether they had been with them for years or it was someone new or special, were trying to find quieter places.

Thorin had explored the town on many occasions, coming down with his father, his grandfather, and yes, his mother. This little courtyard was out of the way; one could still see the main square from the opening, the noise from the festivities, muted. It had a small fountain, the tinkling of the water, a quiet music. There was a bright array of mums surrounding the little yard, small benches here and there. 

Thorin and Gin sat in the shadows to the left of the fountain, hands held tightly. They had danced, eaten, danced more, sang, danced some more, until both were breathless, and happily worn out. The music drifted into the small alcove, the birds cooing in a potted tree behind them.

It made for a very romantic atmosphere. 

"This is a horrible thing to say," Gin whispered, "but I'm glad Reka got sick." Thorin leaned closer to hear her, she spoke so quietly. "To be honest, I don't like him a bit."

"Then why did you agree to go with him?"

Her scowl marred her features. "We've discussed this."

"Aye. We have." 

There was a light touch on Thorin's face and he almost jumped, until he realized that it was the back of Gin's hand. "Your stubble is coming in nicely."

He slowly moved his face nearer to hers. "Really?"

She nodded once and then let her fingertips trace the edge of his eye, still bruised from the fight. "Why did this happen?" 

Thorin ducked his head, attempting to hide the blush that he could feel on his cheeks. "Reka was bragging and not nicely." 

"Goading you."

"Aye." 

_Closer... closer..._

Just when he was so close, he could feel her breath, she pulled back, her eyes no longer fluttering shut. "Thorin?" It was a breathy whisper. "Who is that with Dwalin?" 

He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. "I don't know. I don't care." 

Gin put both hands on his chest. "Thorin!" Seeing he was not to be deterred, she grabbed him by his front braids and pulled his ear down to her mouth. "He's here with a _woman_!" 

All thoughts of a first kiss went flying up with the butterflies. Keeping focused on Gin, he whispered back. "Where?" 

"On the other side of the fountain. I don't think they see.... oh Mahal! I know they don't see us! I can see them over your shoulder." 

"Which one?" 

She tapped his left shoulder. Thorin slowly turned to look over...

_DEAR MAHAL!_

Dwalin was so wrapped up, one could not tell where he began, she ended and where the shadows intertwined them.

The woman squealed. "Oh Dwalin! What thick arms..." The rest was lost and now Gin was thumping her head against Thorin's chest.

The young prince gently grasped her by the elbows. "Shhh." Standing, the two crept along the shadows, to the narrow entrance, and back into the revelry. The crowd had dwindled a bit; the young ones had been taken home by their mothers, but there were still plenty who were still dancing and singing. 

"Thorin!" Now that they were out of the secluded courtyard, Gin was now speaking in a normal voice. "What are we going to do?" 

"Nothing." He was searching for another secluded, isolated courtyard or alley. 

"Nothing? Are you insane? We can't-"

"We can!" he interjected, "I know who he is with. She is a tavern wench from the Mithril Axe Pub." 

"But Thorin-"

"Gin! I would like to take you somewhere quiet and kiss you!" 

For the two young dwarves, all sound stopped. Thorin wanted to kick himself. _So much for the romantic approach._

"Really?" 

Thorin couldn't answer, much less nod. Gin continued to look at him strangely. Finally...

"Balin?" 

"Aye, you two!" Balin materialized out of nowhere, a mug of something frothy in each hand. "I'm lookin' for Dwalin, but he seems to have disappeared. I have a-" he finally looked at the two, Gin's amusement and Thorin's uncomfortable blush. He handed both mugs over to Thorin. "You two look as if you need a bit of coolin' off." He smiled knowingly. "There is a quiet, dark square over yonder..." his voice trailed off as he nodded to where the young dwarves had just come from.

"'Tis taken." 

"Is it now?" Balin was quite astute for such a young dwarf, wisdom coming early for this one. "Anyone I know?" 

"Aye." 

Balin's face hardened into a rare scowl. "Is he with a certain over-painted tavern wench?" 

"Aye." 

Balin rolled his eyes and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. 

The two watched him, watched the goings on for a while, silence hanging over them. 

"Do you have a curfew?" Fireworks were being set off and both made a quiet mental note of the reflection of the light in both pairs of eyes. Both mugs were finished and now dangling from thick fingers. Thorin's empty hand found Gin's empty hand and with that touch...

"Aye. I'm allowed to watch the fireworks, but I need to be home soon after." 

So soon after the show was ended, the two made their way back to the Lonely Mountain.

And somewhere between the Gates of Dale and the Gates of Erebor, Thorin got his kiss.

 

_tbc_

_Note: There is no such thing as corin seed. I made it up!_

**Munuð- kvilla;** Love-sickness

fierce - **grarm**

**hrodi -** snot (Old Norse)

**flík -** rag

**mús** \- mouse


	9. 08 - The woods shall wave on Mountains

_**Chapter 08** _

_**The Woods shall wave on Mountains** _

_Human Age Equivalent - 21_

"Must we invite the Elves?" 

"Here, Thorin. Have another turkey leg." As young as she was, Gin saw the storm brewing and she watched under lowered eyes as her mother and her future mother-in-law and her future grandmother-in-law - who just so happened to be the Queen - wink and nod appreciatively. 

"They are invited, Thorin," Thrór answered swiftly. He lifted his goblet for a servant to refill. "We cannot uninvite them." 

"Watch me." 

"It would be rude."

"We are dwarves, are we not?" 

There was twittering around the table at that pronouncement, which only made Thorin more irate. 

"I do not understand why we need such a huge, elaborate, formal state wedding at all. Gin and I wanted something... private. Just the family." 

The room went silent, all eyes on the bride and groom-to-be before exploding into an uproar, with the males - Gin's father, Eyða, Thrór and Thráin, bellowing as if they were ready to go to battle. Thorin expected one or both to call up the Dwarven Armies; yell ' _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!_ ' and start a war over the fact they just wanted something simple. The females were red in the face and shouting at each other. Thorin knew he heard his mother - _You are a Prince of Erebor_ \- as if that was supposed to humble him like it did when he was younger. Gin's grandmother was yelling, after all this was her wedding as well, and shouldn't the _children's_ wishes be taken into consideration? Her mother was crying; her daughter _deserved_ a lavish wedding, every dwarf-lass dreams of her special day! It was quite a sight, the servants disappearing back into the shadows. He felt a tap on this elbow.

Gin nodded towards the door; her intent, very clear. 

The two slid from the large dining room in the King's Chambers - this was an important meeting indeed - and quickly hurried to the main hall. 

"We need to hide, Gin. The minute they realize we are gone-" Apparently, Gin had a place picked out and she yanked his hand, Thorin gladly following. Within minutes, he knew where they were going, where they were heading. They found the winding, hidden staircase of their youth and climbed high to the balcony, that quiet terrace where so long ago, Thrór chastised and bonded with a young, irate dwarfling who trying so hard to pretend he did not like a certain dwarf-lass. 

The moon was up, full and bright. The City of Dale was lit of for the evening, fireflies winking and playing among the tulips on the mountain. Many of these flowers were being grown specially for the Prince and his Beloved's wedding. 

Thorin put his arms around Gin, tucking her under his chin. "Do you want all of this?" 

She sighed heavily. "No, but considering who you are..."

He hugged her tighter. "Does it matter _who_ I am? Gin." He pulled away, ducking his head to look her in the eye. "Would you marry me if I were a simple miner?"

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/08youngthorinm1_zps67d70cc5.jpg.html)

"THORIN!" Gin turned red. "I have loved you as long as I can remember! Even when you were a monster growing up! How COULD you? Do you REALLY think that I would marry someone simply because of their status? You arrogant, self-centered, boor-"

He kissed her at the point, keeping her outburst short and softening her temper. When they come up for air, she whispered, "Do you remember what Yavannah whispered to you on your birth?" 

"Aye."

"Did it concern a Dwarf? A specific dwarf?" 

"Ooooh, aye!" He smiled and grabbing her by her hips, pulled her into him, grinding himself at her juncture. "And I plan on doing exactly what she told me to do the night we are joined!" Soon, they were kissing again. "You?" 

"Aye." For a time, the two were unaware of anything, but each other. 

"Thorin?" 

"Hmmm?" 

More kissing. 

"Gin?" 

"Hmmm?"

"Do you want this huge ceremony or would you rather something... more personal, quiet?" 

At this, her shoulders fell. "Aye. I do want something... just us and our families and friends, but with your family connections... truly," she rambled on, feeling his sigh, "if it were just the Dwarves, I would be fine. I don't mind Dáin Ironfoot and the Iron Hills Dwarves, because I know they are your family-"

"They will be your family as well." 

"True," she admitted, "and I remember when they came for the summer eclipse celebration - a gwiil, twelve years ago..." her voice trailed off in memory. There had been a rare summer solar eclipse and Thrór decided that there needed to be a festival of Dwarven proportions and invited his great nephew and the dwarves of the Iron Hills. 

That Dwarf could break some plates and had no problems going nose to nose with the King of Erebor and drinking him under the table. 

It had been great fun. Took a month to clean up the mess... 

Thorin had had a hangover that lasted for days. So did Dwalin. They had been bad. So bad, he still blushed thinking about it and he prayed Gin never found out how bad he had been. He didn't remember the wench's name. Neither one of their names, come to think of it, much less what they looked like. For some time, every time he went to Dale, he kept his head down. Mahal forbid, he run across one of them and they recognized him. That would be embarrassing. 

He realized suddenly that Gin had resumed talking. 

"But I don't understand why all of Dale and Esgorath is invited... much less the Elves. I take that back," she hung her head. "I do understand why they are invited. I just wish it could be us. Our friends. Or why can't we just have our wedding and throw a celebration later?" 

"Wish that we could." 

For some minutes, the two simply held each other, wishing things could be different. They didn't realize that Balin was in the shadows, with his back turned. 

"You know, this is such a beautiful spot," he finally spoke, clearing his throat. "So quiet and peaceful." He appeared to be contemplating the stars from the other side of the balcony. "I would bring my love up, if I had one. But I do not." With this he slowly turned. "I am sorry to interrupt, but the two of you are being searched for and it would be better if you went back on your own, rather than a group of guards storming the balcony here and embarrass you and your bride-to-be." He nodded towards the stairwell. "There is an extra torch on the landing." 

Gin stepped back from Thorin's embrace and hugged the older dwarf before stepping back. "Thank you." 

Before he could follow, Balin grabbed Thorin by the sleeve. "I heard what you and Gin discussed, about a wedding and then a celebration. It would take the stress off?" 

"Most surely, it would," Thorin whispered. "This is becoming too elaborate of a gwiil than either of us would like." 

"The wedding is in three months?" 

"At the full moon, aye." 

Thorin saw a ghost of a smile on his friend's face. "You let me talk to Dwalin, laddie. Maybe, we will come up with something."

_**~~~...~~~**   
_

The next few weeks were chaotic. There were clothes, fittings, new boots (Thorin hated new boots), jewelry. Thrór, despite falling deeper into his greed, was determined his grandson and eventual heir would not come off looking beggarly for the nuptials and he was equally determined his grandson's bride would be the most breathtaking dwarf-lass who ever married into the Line of Durin.

Well, next to Thrór's beloved Kveykva, that is. 

And that meant impressing the guests. Especially the Elves. Especially Thranduil. 

Most importantly, Thranduil. 

Jewels for braids, for beards, Thorin demanding sapphires, rich, blue jewels for Gin, earrings, necklaces, rings. Their wedding bands, encrusted with diamonds and more sapphires...

Silks were imported from Dol Amroth; blue and silken thread to embroider Thorin's insignia, silver braiding and trim, merchants from Dale bringing precious oils and perfumes for Gin to sample.

Gin had a headache after the merchants left. 

Sooooo many flowers... 

Two weeks before the wedding, Thorin showed up at Gin's chambers late in the morning, a covered basket bouncing in his hands behind his back and dressed in his finest tunic and state robes. She was having the final fittings for most of her royal wardrobe and at the moment, her friends and mother had her clad in her favorite, a long blue tunic, trimmed with silver stars that she planned to wear for the wedding. "I have come," he was looking in the top of the cavern, "to take you on a picnic." 

"On the hillside?" 

"In the garden." He extended his arm. "Things have been hectic and are going to get worse." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I have procured the day and evening for us." He winked. "Just us."

"I should change."

"You should not." 

Two of Gin's attendants (and best friends) stood behind her, giggling. This caused Thorin's bride-to-be to glance at them sideways. "What are you two up to?" 

"I've reached four foot seven, Gin," Heill replied, not quite straight faced. "I don't believe I'll grow much more. What do you think, Akkeri?"

Akkeri settled her right arm on her chest, cupping the left elbow with her right hand and her left hand cupping her chin, tapping her lip. "I don't know, girlfriend. You might have a late growth spurt. My sister did. She shot up an inch after she got married." She nodded to Thorin. "She's almost as tall as her husband now." Thorin knew this, but he wasn't about to tell the females Akkeri's brother-in-law joked about having to climb his own wife each night. 

"You are up to something. I can smell it," Gin mumbled.

"Of course I am and of course we are!" Thorin grabbed Gin by the hand and tugged her towards the doorway. "But you will never find out what we are up to until you come with me." He pulled the door shut behind her, leaving her friends giggling in Gin's chambers. "You will like it. I promise." 

Within minutes, the two were in the garden, soaking in the sunshine, eating fresh bread, lathered in honey butter and tender slivers of roast beef. 

"Thorin, there are no eating utensils. How are we supposed to eat this?" Thorin's beloved quickly found a piece of meat, dangling in front of her face. 

"Open up." Gin stared at the offered food.

"But-"

"Open. Up." 

"But-"

"Gin, please just do it." Thorin waggled the meat, juices threatening to drip or fly, depending on how haphazardly the dwarf decided to shake. 

Realizing that if she didn't eat from her intended's hand, she would more likely be wearing the grease so she opened up, watching as he set the food on her tongue. Sucking the juices from his fingers, she smiled saucily. "My turn," she whispered. Grasping a piece of the roast, she likewise returned the favor, trembling when his teeth latched gently about her fingers. Thus, they ate. 

After the meal was finished, amid much giggling, Thorin began to rummage through the basket. "How stupid am I?" he wondered aloud, holding up a single sapphire-encrusted goblet, one that looked suspiciously like the one created for their nuptials. "I could have sworn I packed the mate to this. I suppose, " he sighed theatrically, "we will have to share. Here, hold it, while I pour." He passed the goblet to Gin. After filling the chalice, he held it while she drank, and in turn, she held it for him. 

"Thorin, will we find a sword and broom nearby?" 

"Most likely," he retorted jovially. Quickly, he turned serious. "Does this bother you?" 

Gin's smile was generous and gentle. "It would be perfect, save we are missing our family and friends, Thorin."

Thorin leaned back, back, back so he was looking at the hillside above them. "No, we are not." 

Gin turned to see her family, Thorin's family and their friends standing on the ledge above the garden. Thrór was in his finest armor and robes. 

"C'mon wit' ye!" Dwalin roared. "Are y'gonna kiss 'er, ar no?" 

"They have to jump the broom and sword first, Dwalin. As well as the king must say the sacred words and bless them." Balin was grinning from ear to ear. 

"Do not deny me saying the sacred words, Dwalin, son of Fundin." Thrór's voice was a rumble. 

Gin was staring at Thorin in wonder. "Thorin, I-"

"Our friends and family are here," Thorin whispered. "You are beautiful and I love you. I have arranged a room down in the nicest inn in Esgaroth for three days." He smiled brightly. "It has a private hot spring and indoor garden!" With large hands, he cupped her face, thumbing a tear away. "A wedding for us. The way we want it. And a celebration for the rest in two weeks." He nodded his head, "We do not have to tell the guests." He inhaled. "What do you say?" 

Gin placed both hands over his. "I say, you and I go up and join our family and get married." She turned her head and kissed the palm of his hand. "Thank you for thinking of this." 

With that, Thorin tucked her hand in his elbow and headed towards the small gathering. "No, thank my father. Apparently, he and my mother did the same thing!" 

And with that, he led her up the path, jumping a sword and a broom, which just happened to be lying in the path along the way. 

And Thorin married his Gin. 

_tbc_

 

_Heill - Luck_   
_Akkeri - anchor_   
_Gwiil - festival_   
_Eyða - lay waste_


	10. 09 - The Grass Beneath the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hankie Warning. Dragon.

_**Chapter 09** _

_**The Grass beneath the Sun** _

_Human Age Equivalent - 25_

 

"DRAGON!" 

Thorin had heard enough stories in his young life about dragons to know what Dale and Erebor were about to withstand. His great-grandfather and great-uncle had both been killed by a cold drake. The number of attacks on the old kingdom in the Grey Mountains were the reason why the settlement there was eventually abandoned by Thrór and his youngest brother, Grór, who went further east into the Iron Hills to form his own kingdom. Surely, they both thought, they were far from the winged beasts and their nests of the far north.

Balin would have fried with his beard, had Thorin not grabbed him and harbored with him behind one of the great granite pillars of Erebor. Quickly, his mind raced; his grandfather, the king would be in his treasure room, his father, with the gem cutters.

_His wife..._

Gin would be in their chambers or with her mother or his mother or...

Great Mahal, she could be on the mountainside, drinking in the sun.

_And heavy, so heavy with their first babe._

Heading down the stairs into the Great Hall, he began to issue orders. "Balin, take every available man to the front gate." With luck and prayers, it would be shut and barred, but Thorin rather doubted that even reinforced, the Great Doors would hold back a fire-breathing dragon. "Long pikes in the front. Evacuate the women and children to the side gates and passageways. Send them to the caves on the west side of the mountain. I want any who cannot fight away from the Great Hall."

He continued to move down the stairwell, searching those that were fleeing. He wanted to find his wife, his mother, but his duty...

For not the first time, Thorin detested being a Prince of Erebor. 

"Thorin, where do you need me?" Dwalin was running down the corridor, his axes, Grasper and Keeper, sheathed on his back, a long handled pike in his hands. "Your father is on his way."

"My grandfather? The king? Do you know his whereabouts?" Dwalin shrugged and shook his head. "Go to my father. I'll be right there." He watched for a second as his friend ran down the corridor.

_Gin... Gin... where is Gin..._

"Brother!" Thorin's brother, Frerin, was not quite as tall as his brother. Where Thorin was dark haired and steel-eyed, Frerin was fair and dark eyed. He was stocky, as a dwarf should be and a strong fighter, like his elder brother. "Is it really a dragon?" 

"Aye." Thorin continued to move through the hall, pointing, directing warriors and non-warriors alike. 

"Why on earth would a fire-drake come so far for us?" 

Thorin stopped and glared, causing his younger brother to cower. "Knowledge of our grandfather's greed for gold and precious stones has become wider spread than we suspected." Frerin nodded. "I need you to listen carefully and do as I say." The two went into the weapons room, Thorin grabbing several spears and pikes and passed them to his brother. "Find mother, find Dís-"

"Thorin! I want to fight!"

"FIND GIN!" At this point, Frerin knew this was a losing battle. "Someone needs to take the women and children out of here and into the outer caves." He didn't wait to see if his brother acknowledged him or not. "Find mother, Dís and Gin. Take them to the caves. Take everyone you can find to the caves!" 

"How long should we wait?" 

"Not long. A few days at best." 

They reached a fork in the corridor, Thorin prepared to go left, into the Great Hall, where he could hear yelling, the sounds of the gates being braced. "If we are defeated, go to the Elven King of Mirkwood." 

"Grandfather isn't very fond of him."

"Thrór is not fond of anyone, anymore," Thorin snarled. "Not friend, nor family." He inhaled quickly. "Go to Thranduil. Hopefully, he will help." Thorin hugged his brother quickly and then shoved him in the opposite direction. "Find our women. Get them to safety. Tell Gin I love her. If I don't return and the child is a boy, he is to be named Borin." With that, he turned down the corridor and headed toward the Great Gate of Erebor.

In hindsight, the battle would feel like it took hours, when in actuality, it was over in mere seconds. True to Thorin's deepest fear, the door, braced and reinforced, did not hold against a fire-breathing dragon. As the wood exploded, fire spewing through the air, Thorin didn't have time to be fascinated by the power of the beast, much less the terrifying beauty of it. 

The beast leveled the Great Hall, destroying arches, pillars, leaving rubble in his wake. His tail, swinging like a great ax, tossed mighty dwarven warriors as if they were sand. As the beast literally walked over top of the guards, Thorin thought he saw a missing scale, but he dismissed it as fancy and shadow. The monster left ruin in his path, many, including warriors, fleeing outside the ruined gate. Thorin made to go after the beast, only to be grabbed by Dwalin. 

"Where are you going?" 

"My grandfather!" Thorin jerked from Dwalin's grasp and pointed to his friend's father, Fundin, who was aiding warriors to their feet. "Erebor is lost! We will need much reinforcement to retake the city. Get them out of here! To the caves! See if there are any survivors in Dale!" For some odd reason, Thorin did not believe the city of men outside the gates had been left unscathed by the fiend. 

Running against the tide of fleeing dwarven mass, Thorin again prayed for the safety of his wife and his family. As the caverns expanded within Erebor, there was less true damage, and simply a mess. Thorin entered the Throne room in time to see his Thrór tip the Arkenstone from above his seat and cuddle it to him, much like a small babe. 

_Of course, he would retrieve the Arkenstone, that which gave us the right to rule. Whoever held it held the kingship. Without it, we could not hold the Seven Armies to their oaths. It was the only thing besides Dwarves that was worth coming back for. With it, we can call aid to remove this beast!_

Except instead of pocketing the jewel and running to safety with the brightly-glowing gem, Thrór ran down behind the throne and towards his personal vault.

Where the dragon was also heading. 

Thorin yelled, but his voice, powerful that it was, was lost in the sounds of screaming and roaring. In the back of his mind, Thorin knew that many lives were lost that day, but he couldn't dwell on that right that moment. 

The dragon reached the vault moments before Thrór did, plunging in with the joy of a child in a pool of water. 

The walls and ground shook as the dragon dove into the treasure, flinging all that Thorin's grandfather coveted and stacked so neatly, into the air, knocking the elder dwarf flat on his stomach, causing him to lose his grip on the precious crystal he held so tightly.

Thorin ran in behind him, in time to see the glowing orb bounce down onto what had been the floor and disappear in a moving river of gold. 

Seeing that his grandfather was about to dive in after it, Thorin grabbed him around the waist and pulled him backwards, out of the chamber and into the corridor.

"But the Arkenstone-"

"We know where it is." Thorin pulled him through the smoky hallway. "We'll come back when he's not looking. When he's not expecting us. When we have reinforcements." He entered the Throne Room, mindful of the refuse of dwarves still running for their lives through the flaming ruin of the front gate. He saw death, bodies.

In the haze of smoke and dust, he saw his own father dazed, thrown against the wall. 

Dwalin and Balin were heading towards him. "Help the King. Get him to safety." He passed the now befuddled dwarf to his friend and shoved them towards the door. "Take him to the caves. I'm following." As soon as they headed towards the gate, Thorin looked back, making sure the dragon was not behind them. Thorin prayed to Mahal that the toothed wyrm would be content to play in his ill-gotten wealth for a time, while the Dwarven army recouped. He then went to his father, pulling him to his feet.

Thráin's sight had not been the same since losing an eye to an orc during Thorin's first orc hunt. He didn't let it slow him down, but Thorin knew at times he had problems focusing, discerning distance. Throwing an arm around his shoulder and grabbing the dwarf by the waist, he pulled him up and headed through the Front Gate. 

It was chaos. Sheer and utter chaos. Warriors were carrying children, little ones who weren't theirs, females were wailing, looking in horror at the destruction behind them in Erebor and ahead at Dale.

Dale was destroyed, in ruins. On fire. There would be no refuge there. Men from the city were meeting, congregating at the foot of the mountain. Several were pointing in many directions, brigades of them at the wells, pulling water, throwing it on a fire they could not contain. Some were armed. 

Many were injured. 

And then Thranduil and his Elves showed up on the rise. 

Looked.

And left. 

In that moment, Thorin knew Erebor was lost and his hate for the elves grew to infinite proportions and began to fester in ways that no one being should hate.

**_~~~...~~~_ **

Supplies were scavenged from Dale, as much as possible. So much death, so much destruction.

So few survivors. So very few.

As Thorin rounded up his people, Frerin joined him, in aid, to help. 

"Gin?" 

"In the caves." The young dwarf was breathless, bent over. In the years to come, Thorin would remark to himself how much Fili would look like him. "I got mother and Dís out and met Gin coming through the west gate."

"She was in the garden. Of course." Better she was outside, away from that flying lizard, than in the bedlam within the Lonely Mountain. Wailing rose up, interrupting the discussion between the brothers. 

Standing next to a smoldering house was a man, throwing water on the fallen, smoking beams. He turned an ash-darkened face and saw Thorin and Frerin. "Please, master dwarf. My wife and son... please."

Unable to deny aid, much less tell him there was no way anyone could live through such, the two went to assist the man. In the end, a small boy, clinging to life was found, under his mother who had not been so fortunate. 

"Is there a healer in the caves?" 

Frerin nodded. "Aye, but-"

"Send all survivors to the caves." Thorin pointed in the general direction. "All things salvageable, all food, to the caves." 

A single man, scowling, injured, by the way he held his arm, glared down at Thorin. "Who are you, to order us where-"

"I do not see Girion," Thorin interrupted. "Night is falling and it is imperative your survivors find a safe place to stay, even for a night. Word of this will spread like wildfire and orcs and beasts of the night will fall upon you like wild things. " He let his words sink in. "There is room in the caves. Your people must make provisions, decision, as do we. I have done all I can here. I must tend to my people." With that, he turned and started the arduous climb to the caves on the west side of the mountain.

The caves were well hidden, easily fortified. In times of plenty, food stuffs, necessary goods were stored by the people of Dale; the Dwarves had no need of them, or thought they did not, nevertheless, they often added to the food supply, for while it was said Dwarves were greedy and cared not for others, it was not for food that they desired and the city of Dale had been good to them and for them. Therefore, it was an unspoken, mutual agreement. Besides, the deepest depths of the caves were as cool as a winter cellar, meats were hung, smoked, in the recesses, wine stacked in jugs and stored.

Thorin made his way to the main cave; someone there would be able to tell him where to find his family. His father, his grandfather, the king.

_His wife._

He entered the cave, the one long designated to be the waygate in case of emergency. Sure enough, there were Dwarves, Men in charge, pointing, showing the way to food and shelter. Many were being carried to healers, healers that were now too few. 

Fundin, Dwalin and Balin's father, stood guard, scrutinizing all who came through. His arms were crossed, his stance one that Thorin recognized in his youngest son. Balin, tough warrior that he was, took after his mother, a gentle soul, who could charm the pants off a hardened warrior and barter with the best of the fishwives. When the dwarf saw Thorin, he nodded him over. "Yer grandfather has been givin' a sleepin' draught to calm him down. He's ready to go and fight that beast by himself!" 

Thorin shook his head. "Erebor is lost. Even the Elves turned away." 

"Thranduil?" Fundin snarled. "Not surprised. Cares only about his kingdom in the woods and his pretty white sparklies. We are nothin' t'him." 

Thorin leaned in. "Sound familiar?" 

Fundin didn't crack a smile. "You kin say that. I kinna." The Dwarf barreled on. "Yer father took a nasty crack to t'head. Healer says he'll be fine in a few days."

"Did you see what happened?" 

"Aye. Beast came up on his blind side. He never knew wha' hit him."

Thorin shook his head. Ever since his father lost an eye, his eyesight had been a burden to him. His field of depth was gone. "Mother and Dís are with him?" 

"No." Fundin turned in the opposite direction. "They are in the south portion with your wife." 

The southern set of caves was where the healing herbs were hung to dry, extra blankets, healing ointments and oils that needed cooler temperatures were kept. It was made up of a network of small, private caverns, perfect for healers and injured who needed privacy. Thorin's heart sank.

_Please not Gin...this pregnancy has been difficult, so prayed for, so long awaited..._

"Any dwarf or man who is able, put them on watch at the mouths." He took off down the long cavern, grabbing a torch as he went. Groans, cries echoed from the hallways and he bit his tongue to keep from telling them to be quiet, the wyrm would hear, the orcs would hear. He peered into each cavern, praying he wouldn't see his wife on the ground. 

As he turned the final corridor, he was run into by his sister. She stumbled backwards, crying out and Thorin grabbed her by the arms to steady her. "Dís. Where is Gin?" 

She was pale and she stuttered for a moment, Thorin's stomach now churning. "Thorin, I'm sorry, so sorry."

"Gin?" he rasped.

"I...I..." 

She was interrupted by her mother, who tapped her on her shoulder. "Go check on your father again. Stay with him until I relieve you." She watched as her only daughter gave her eldest brother one sad look, before disappearing down the cavern hall.

"Gin?" It seemed to be the only word he could utter.

"She's... she'll be fine, eventually." Með took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Thorin. The flight wasn't good for her in her condition and she went into labor."

Thorin refused to believe what he was hearing. "The babe isn't due for three more moons." 

"No, he wasn't." He. A boy. "A few more weeks, he would have survived."

Thorin's immediate fear was for his wife. "Gin-"

"Is very weak. She's lost a lot of blood, Thorin. No matter what is going on out there, she can't be moved for some weeks. Let's pray that dragon is happy in our horde and that nothing comes near while we protect our own and they recover." She stroked his shoulder. "She needs you. She needs your strength. She needs to know you love her. Losing a babe..." She blinked tears. "'Tis horrible, Thorin. 'Tis horrible." With that, she stepped around him and followed her daughter down the corridor. 

Thorin steeled himself, before entering the softly lit cavern. His wife lay on a pile of furs in the middle of the floor; so pale, so frail looking. He knelt down, taking her hand in his, noting how thin her skin was suddenly. She was the color of porcelain and his fear for her now expanded ten-fold. He was vaguely aware when she squeezed his hand and touched his face with other. "You're here. You're alive." 

"I'm too mean for a mere dragon to do away with me." 

The back of her hand stroked his chin. "Your beard. It's singed off."

He never noticed, never realized. "It will grow back." 

With this, her jaw began to tremble. "I lost our baby, Thorin. I'm sorry. So sorry."

Thorin found himself stretching out next to her, taking her into his arms. "It's not your fault," he whispered. "Another death to blame on that dragon."

"It was a boy. A son. I'm sorry." 

Thorin tried to pull her closer. "It's not your fault, Gin. I love you. Do not fret." He stroked her hair from her face. Now was not the time to reassure her that once they settled in a new home, they would try again. He didn't know how long that would be, much less where it would be. 

"It's cold, so cold here. I can't get warm." 

And Thorin spent the night, smoky, smelling of fire and singed fur, keeping his wife warm, while they both grieved their lost baby. 

 

_tbc_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N - I apologize for the delay. My car broke down on the coast and I was delayed coming home to update. Sorry. Thanks all who are reading.

_**Chapter 10** _

_**His wealth shall flow in fountains** _

_Human Age Equivalent - 25_

 

As the dust settled and the fires in Dale were doused or burned out, the survivors of Dale decided to relocate to Esgaroth, a thriving city on the banks of the Long Lake. Girion missed with his windlance, dying in the attempt to stop the beast. He left his wife and young son bereft. Thorin and the Dwarves who survived the sacking of Erebor watched as the men of Dale moved down the river. 

"They said we could join them, settle, recoup our losses and mount an attack." Dwalin was sitting on a pile of potatoes, drawing a whet stone over Grasper. 

Gin was sleeping; Thorin's mother and the crone of a healer saying sleep was the best medicine for her. They had tried for so long and rejoiced when she quickened. Mahal knew she cried whenever she was awake, cried for her loss, their loss, Erebor's loss. Thorin had no idea a female could cry so much, grieve for so much. 

He was hard as granite, empty, a shell. 

Thrór, the king, simply stared at the stone wall of what had become his chamber. At times, he asked for his wife, who had been dead for some years. Her crypt lay deep in the mountain, waiting for when Thrór passed and, as was the way for the high-born of Durin's people, to be thrown in the Mahal's Great Forge in the lowest parts of the mountains together. 

Thorin leaned against the opening of the cave, arms crossed, staring at the smoke that continued to from the city of Dale, the light of the afternoon, grey in its hopelessness. The day before, he and Dwalin had gone to the front, to the Great Gates, to find them in ruins, impassable, as was the West Gate, from which so many of theirs had escaped.

The few that had escaped.

There was no longer a way into the mountain. 

"So, should we join them?" Dwalin never looked up, simply continued to sharpen his blade with his whetstone. 

"No." Thorin looked to his left, to this new voice, his father. Despite having to be carried out of Erebor, Thráin had recovered quickly, not having succumbed to the gold sickness of his own father. For not the first time, Thorin looked up to him, many of their people looking in desperation to the next King Under the Mountain, even in exile, to lead them to a new home.

"No," he repeated. "Esgaroth's wealth is tied to the Lonely Mountain, to Dale. There will be no more riches coming from here and the city will dry up." He shook his head, his beard singed off in places as well as many others. "Besides, we are not fishermen, which is all that is left now. We are Dwarves. Miners, stone masons, we need the mountains, as the mountain needs us."

"Where should we go?" Thorin asked. "We cannot stay here." 

"In truth, we have several options." Thráin continued to stare out into the mountainside, relishing the coolness of the mist now falling on the still smoldering city. "We could head east, to the Iron Hills, live with our kin." 

"Dáin Ironfoot rules there." Fundin now joined the small group. "Thrór is king here, but I do not see Dáin handing his home over willingly, much less stepping aside. Nor do I see Thrór willing to live under his great-nephew's thumb, a poor, exiled relation; a king with no throne." 

"Khazad-dûm." For the first time since leaving the mountain, Thrór stood confidant and sure. He stared out at the city of men outside the gates of Erebor, in ruins. He drew up, fury rising at the needless destruction. For the first time since Thorin was a small dwarf, his grandfather stood tall and proud, no sign of the madness in him lurking in his bright eyes. "We take back Khazad-dûm." 

Thorin and Dwalin looked at each other, before Thorin addressed his father. "Perhaps, the Blue Mountains. Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar. Surely, the sea has retreated and we could resettle there." 

"Aye," his father agreed. "That is a possibility. We could go, nurse our wounds. It is our original homeland. In time, we may look upon Erebor again." Thráin knew they would look upon Erebor again. There was another way into the mountain, but now was not the time. Not when so many of them had perished and not when they had no hope of receiving aid from anyone, including their own kin.

"Khazad-dûm!" Thrór's voice shook. "It is ours! It is closer! We take back what is ours." 

The group looked at the king, pity in their eyes he did not see. Eventually, all of them hung their heads and made their way back into the cavern. 

Save Thráin. 

Together, the king and his heir stood at the cave mouth, alone with their thoughts, their fury, their grief. 

"You have the map?" 

"Aye. And the key."

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/10Map1_zps66f43bff.jpg.html)

For the first time in a long time, a half smile made its way to the mouth of Durin's son. He made a fist and raised it so Thráin could see the last, free Dwarven Ring of Power still on his hand. "We will regain our homeland and we will take back Khazad-dûm. Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!" He did not seem to realize that his son's heart froze in fear. "We will be strong again." He turned and stormed into the shadows, his voice ringing in the halls. "As soon as I grow back this cursed beard!"

_tbc_


	12. 11 - And the Rivers run Golden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and thank you for your comments and kudos.

_**Chapter 11** _

_**And the Rivers Golden Run  
** _

_Human age equivalent 28 - 35_

There was a gentle tap on Thorin's knee. It took a moment for the tenderness of it to register in the grieving dwarf's mind. Opening his eyes for a second, he was startled by the light in the cavern. It was as if all the fireflies in Erebor had escaped through small vents and cracks and took flight and refuge in this one solitary cavern of Tumunzahar. 

Dís had kept her word.

"Yes, Fili?" 

The little blonde peered closely up at his uncle. "Time to eat. Mama says to please come." 

Thorin looked at him for a moment, Fili's resemblance to Thorin and Dís's long-dead brother alarming. Finally, he said quietly, "I will be there shortly. You go along." 

The little face hardened, a fierce look that in years to come, Thorin would recognize as stubbornness inherited, marking him as one of Durin's sons. "Mama says if you not come to eat, she will send Kili!" 

Thorin grimaced. "That would be most horrible, Fili. I will remember that." He turned the child around, facing the door way and patted him on the rear-end "Go on now. I will be there shortly. I promise."

**__**

~~~...~~~

Going to the Greenwood to beg from Thranduil was out of the question.

Going to the Iron Hills was ruled out. Thráin was very vocal about that not being an option. 

Thrór was equally vocal about re-establishing the mines in Khazad-dûm. 

The Dwarves settled quietly in the caves for some days, waiting to see if the dragon would leave or scout about, which he did neither. It was obvious that Erebor was now his, at least for the time being, until the Dwarves could gather the Dwarf Kingdoms and unite them against the dragon.

"We cannot do that without the Arkenstone!" Thrór snarled for the umpteenth time. "Had you let me go after it-"

"You would be dead and king of nothing!" Thorin shouted back. "Your gold would be for naught!" With that, the younger dwarf turned on his heel and stormed deeper into the caves, all assuming he was off to check on his wife. 

Thrór watched as his grandson disappeared into the cool over the cavern. "What is with him?" 

"Too heavy a burden," Thráin whispered, where his father could not hear. "Too much heartache." 

"What? I cannot hear you when you mumble!" 

Thráin steeled himself before turning around. "When Thorin sees to Gin and calms down, the three of us must make a plan for our people. We cannot live here in the caves until that dragon dies. We have to find a home for us, for our people."

"Bah! Next you will tell me we need to move the king's seat to some seedy elvish pub in Druwaith Iaur!" 

Thráin shrugged. "That would be a start," he admitted much to his father's disgust. "When has anyone forged the mountains of Ras Morthil?" 

"Never. 'Tis too close to the sea! Might as well reforge the Blue Mountains, although there is nothing there."

"There is iron in the Blue Mountains." Thorin had not left or wandered far, apparently. He leaned against the wall, inspecting a shriveled apple in his hand.

"There is mithril in the Redhorn!" Thrór quickly interjected. 

"There is a balrog in those mountains! Have you forgotten?" 

"How long has it been since that balrog has been seen?" The three dwarves now stood in a tight circle, fingers pointing at each other, the vocal pitches of their voices raising high in anger and heard deep into the caverns. No one dared interrupt, separate them. When the Sons of Durin spoke in elevated, heated voices, the earth would shake and no one could stifle them. 

Not even their wives. 

But they knew they could not stay where they were.

_**~~~...~~~** _

Weeks later, Thorin and what was left of the populace of Erebor found themselves following the River Celduin south, much of what was stored in the caves packed for their own needs. They had not been subtle about the taking of the goods and the people of Esgaroth didn't seem to notice, to be honest. With the sudden realization that a living, breathing fire-drake was now in residence in Erebor, they were making plans to move the city onto the lake, creating a sort of lake town, in effort to protect themselves. The dwarves bartered for wagons, some cattle and a few horses and ponies to draw them. Balin snorted that the Men of Esgaroth were not well-versed in the fine art of bartering, snickered that the dwarves received the goods at a fraction of their worth, but the truth was, the inhabitants were more concerned about other things, especially with the influx of the survivors from Dale and the leaving of the dwarves.

Gin was most put out, being forced to travel in a wagon once the barges dropped them off. She was pale, losing weight and it worried Thorin to no end. Thorin listened to her fuss to her heart's content, only to shake his head when she was finished. Any attempt she made to get down or off was promptly halted when Thorin or Dwalin set her right back into her seat.

Thorin found himself presented with a cold back the first few nights on the road, but eventually, she snuggled in. 

They spent a month, traveling up a small tributary that led into the Mountains of Mirkwood, but scouting and test mining showed there were nothing but veins of useless rock in those hills. 

Not to mention, an emissary from Thranduil's court let Thrór know that anything found of worth was property of the Elven King. And they would be paid for their mining services accordingly. 

What the emissary seemed to think was appropriate pay was a sick joke. The curses that fell from Thrór's mouth were most succulent and they caused Thorin to want to take ink and parchment to take notes. He and Gin giggled into the night when he told her what his grandfather yelled at the Elf, who had no idea what the Dwarf King had cursed. It was rumored that the Dwarven King almost frothed at the mouth and threw what had been brought from what little mining there had been down at the scrawny Elf, as he scurried away, hitting him on his non-existent rear-end. 

That bit of news made Gin howl with such laughter, Thorin watched her in awe. Surely, she was healing. There was color starting to return to her cheeks, her beard filling out as a Lady Dwarf's should. 

It was decided to take the Old Forest Road through the Greenwood to the plains that lay east of the River Langflood. Once outside the forest, the dwarves settled for the winter months in a moderate sized village, the males smithing and tinkering in exchange for shelter. Several, like Dwalin, guarded the village at night, wolves being a constant threat to livestock.

To Thorin, it was if they had no plan, wandering aimlessly, and that seemed to upset him most. Normally, Thráin was the planner of the three, leaving the business of ruling up to his father and the business of being young up to his son. But since Thrór's greed had gotten to the best of him and cost the Dwarves Erebor for now, Thráin was becoming more vocal and more of the younger dwarves, what were left, looked to him for guidance and leadership. 

One particularly cold night, when the tavern was empty, the Sons of Durin gathered around a table, with a few of the more trusted dwarves; Fundin and his sons, Dwalin and Balin. 

"We canna stay here when t'snow melts, lads." Fundin was wise, but his wife was wiser and it was no secret that the two of them spoke often of the dwarves' plight. "We need to decide where we need to be, where we need to go an' we need t'be doin' it quickly!" 

"Aye," Dwalin chimed in. "An' we need to be well armed." It was one of the few nights he didn't take the night watch. "We've killed or wounded wolves almost every night fer weeks." He leaned forward, making the table come in closer so they could hear his whisper. "We've no' said nuthin' but we've killed three orcs in t'last' tew weeks." He leaned back with his arms crossed, new tattoos showing clearly on his hands. 

"Orcs?" Thrór hissed. "Why didn't you say something sooner?" 

Dwalin shrugged. "Y'dinna ask." 

Balin stared at the steaming mug of honeyed ale in his hands. "I think we should discuss every option, regardless of age or improbability. We do need to have a place or a plan. And we need to set it in place and do it quickly."

"And we are Dwarves; the sons of Durin the Deadless," Thrór chimed in. "We do not give up."

Thráin reached into his outer tunic and pulled a rolled hide, age darkening the edges. "This is a map of Middle Earth, drawn in the end of the Second Age." He unrolled it gently, picking up the empty mugs, wiping the bottoms of moisture before using them to weigh down the edges of the ancient animal skin. His fingers traced across the top, tracing the mountains. "We could return to the Grey Mountains. We know there is gold and gemstones-"

A finger stabbed angrily onto the map, the tip pressed at the large 'V' shaped valley in the mountains. "The Withered Heath is the breeding ground for the dragons!" Thrór spat. He was standing and leaning over the table, blocking the light. "'Tis why we left the Grey Mountains to begin with and in case you have not realized it, 'tis most likely where Smaug came from." He sat back down, his face in a livid grimace. "Do not waste my time on fanciful fantasies!" 

Thráin was completely unmoved by his father's outburst. "I am not wasting time on anything. I simply wish for all of our options to be laid out and discussed." 

"Returning to the Grey Mountains is not an option. Næstr!"

Thráin shrugged, his fingers grazing across the northern part of the map. They traced westward across the Erid Mirthrin, to a series of peaks that could have belonged to either the Grey or the Misty Mountains. 

"Ewn," Fundin pushed back from the table, his arms crossed. At this very moment, Thorin knew where Dwalin got his scowl from. "Mount Gundabad is equally out of the question." 

"It was a Dwarven Fortress long ago," Thráin reminded him.

"How long ago, agmark grek?" Fundin waved his hand, as if to push Thráin's hand on. "It has long been the fortress for the Northern Orcs and it is too close to Carn Dûm for my liking." 

"Angmar is an evil place," Thrór whispered. "No matter how long the WitchKing has been dead, the evil of him and his minions seeped into the Mountains of Angmar. The rock is cursed." 

Thráin's hand continued eastward. "I suppose that means Mount Gram is also not to be considered?" 

"Nor the Ettenmoors. Those mountains are void of anything but soft rock!" Thrór's finger pushed Thráin's aside as he moved southward over the Misty Mountains. "Khazad-dûm!" He rammed the digit into the table several times loudly, making his point. "There is mithril in the Redhorn; thick veins of it! We will recoup our losses and our wealth within a season!" 

"Is that all you think about is riches, sire?" The soft voice was one who was not invited to the meeting, so her presence was a shock. Gin was wrapped up in several furs and was tucked up under her husband's embrace. 

Thrór's face scrunched up in irritation. "I do not recall asking you for your opinion."

"No, but perhaps you should." While her voice was calm, her words were like jagged glass, a razor-sharp, bluntly spoken arrow with a target not many wished to tangle with. "Remember, your decisions affect all of us. 'Tis your love of gold and riches that put us in this place to begin with!" 

The others looked at each other out of the sides of their eyes, watching the storm that was building between King and his grandson's wife. She spoke the truth all of them feared to say out loud. "Derg skale rofa derg legae!" 

"I know my place, you old coot!" For the first time since the loss of her and Thorin's babe, Gin's voice was strong. "And before you say it," she thrust her finger in his face, "your wife would stand up to you and your mulish ways, as well!" 

That stung, mostly because it was the truth. "You know nothing of my-"

"I remember Queen Kveykva well! I remember her honey oat cakes, which-" here Gin shoved her finger into the King's face again, "she gave me her recipe for! You be nice or I will not make you any!" 

"I am being very nice," Thorin whispered in her ear.

"You want more than honey oat cakes," she whispered back, poking him on the arm. 

"Disgusting," Thrór was not finished. "Nonetheless-"

"She would yank the bars from your beard, if you had enough beard to put bars on!" The entire table gasped at that. Beards were important to the dwarves, both male and female, alike. Many who survived the sacking of Erebor had singed or burnt beards, decades of careful growth and grooming, gone. Both Thrór and Thráin had lost significant portions of their beards. 

It was quiet for a moment, while King and Granddaughter - in - law stared each other down. Finally-

"Where would you have us go, Megin, beloved of Thorin?" Thrór asked snidely.

She looked at her husband before she moved on to the map. "Where did you get this?" She tapped the hide. 

"There were a few things more precious than jewels and metal, Gin." Thráin liked his daughter-in-law, a lot. For all their roaring and blustering, he knew Thrór liked her as well. In many ways, she reminded both Thrór and Thráin of Kveykva, who on most days was the gentlest, kindest dwarf-lass in Erebor, but had no qualms going toe to toe with her husband if necessary. 

But this moment, Thrór snorted. "You were asked a question." 

Gin's finger moved slowly down the middle of the map, tracing the Misty Mountains. She hovered over Khazad-dûm. "I remember my father telling me and my siblings stories of Khazad-dûm." She swallowed hard. Her mother and siblings had not made it out of Erebor and her father was now a haunted, haunted dwarf, withdrawn and sullen. "Stories of wonder and wealth. Riches beyond imagining." She then tapped the map. "But he told me that the dwarves there dug too deep and woke a wretched beast; a knold, a Balrog." Almost lazily, her hand drifted back to where Thráin's had already been. "It seems the Dwarves' homes have been set upon by evil, every where we turn. Which one of the Valar did we anger?" Her hand moved south again. "The southern portion of the Misty Mountains," she drifted to the area southwest of Fangorn. "Has the southern portion of the Misty Mountains been explored?" 

"Orthanc," Fundin whispered. "A great and powerful wizard lives there."

Gin's hand continued to drift. She peered at the map. "Dunland." 

"Sworn enemies of the Rohirrim, the Horse Lords." Thorin filled in. 

"Do we care?" Thrór interjected. "I worry not for the bickering of men."

"No," Gin whispered. "You simply wor-"

Thorin chose that moment to kiss her.

"Perhaps you should take your wife to bed, Thorin."

Realizing her husband had simply hushed her mouth, she pulled away, seeing a dangerous, angry glint in his eye. Gin tapped on the mountain range east of Dunland. "What is here?"

"The mountain rock there has not been explored to my knowledge."

"No, it has not," Thráin agreed, eager to move away from the subject that kept re-presenting itself; his father's addictive love of precious metals. As much as he hated to admit it, the lure of wealth was beginning to take root in his own soul, but he brushed it off as a desire to return to the lifestyle he had had before Smaug. He watched as his daughter-in-law's hand continued to drift southward, well into Rohan. He shook his head and picked up the dainty palm. "No use going further south." Setting her hand to the side, he stabbed out specific points. "Here lies the Paths of the Dead. To enter within is to court Death and Death always wins. We know nothing of the White Mountains and," with this, his hand moved east. "Nor do we know much of Ras Morthil - save that it is too close to the sea for my self-assurance and it is located in the land of the Drúedain."

"A strange folk," Fundin rumbled softly.

"Aye," Thráin agreed. "Legend has it they live in the mists, are secretive, magical..."

"Sounds like Elves," Thorin growled. "I have had enough Elves to last my lifetime." 

"In tha' case, laddie," Fundin's fingers now joined the fray on the map. "Our choices are few. We have no' th' funds to scout even an exploratory expedition tha' far away." He quickly jabbed at several places in quick succession. "Khazad-dûm, which is closer, wit' a guarantee o' mithril in th' Redhorn, Much o' th' mining equipment is still there, I suspect, although it might take a season or tew o' cleaning an' readying."

"Bu-"

Fundin continued over his son's friend's wife, drowning her out. "Th' forges might be difficult t' light, seein' how they've bin out for so long. If no' here, then aye, th' lass is right t' check intuh th' mountains of Dunland. 'Tis on our way to th' Blue Mountains." 

"The Blue Mountains are under water." 

"Maybe. Maybe not." Thráin shrugged. "No one's been there in how many thousands of years?" 

Thrór sat snarling, not deterred from his original desire. "Gwen va knaldkarl?" 

All heads but one dropped. "You are, sire."

Thrór looked over the table, seeing clearly the one set of eyes who looked directly at him. For the first time in ages, he thought clearly, remembering a time... He thrust his finger towards the only female sitting at the board; the only one who appeared ready to verbally duel with him. "Derg vare kerhvil ewnva mag þan nin ó-hœgr kild!"

Gin didn't bat an eyelash. "Mota derg skeg sitja brina."

Everyone at the table held their breath. Thrór's lip twitched. "Hnut." 

Gin snorted. She reached across her husband and picked up his tankard. "Is that the best you have, ormar?"

Thrór finally leaned back, laughter shaking his sides in a way no one had seen for years. It was as if the old Thrór had returned. He shook his finger at a relieved Thorin. "You chose well, Thorin! You chose well!"

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/11ThorinandKing1_zps9b2b8631.jpg.html)  


The light-heartedness would not last long. The moment the snow melted, the dwarves wandered around the south, through Rohan, smithing as they went. These Horselords had horses and horses needed shoes and bridles and bits and other things made in a forge.

 

And there was not a single living creature more suited for a smithy than a dwarf. 

They settled in Dunland, beneath the Misty Mountains and worked for a time, settling somewhat. 

Only for Thorin to watch his wife miscarry yet again, deep in the winter. 

In the early spring, as soon as the snow receded, Thrór headed with a large group of Dwarves to take back Khazad-dûm. The mountain was too close; he could smell the mithril in the air, coming down the wind. Just to see if the Balrog was still there. Just in case, he left his Dwarven Ring of Power - the only dwarven ring not in Sauron's control - with his son, Thráin. 

One lone survivor came back, cowering in front of Thráin, to inform him that they had no idea if the Balrog still lived, because Orcs had taken Moria and the Pale Orc had beheaded and defiled the body of King Thrór. 

When it was done and over, the beheading and despoiling of the king's body was the one thing the other kingdoms of the Dwarves would respond to, when they would not respond to retaking of Erebor. Apparently, they did not need the Arkenstone to avenge the King's death. 

In the end, in the War of The Dwarves and the Orcs, the Dwarves avenged the death of their king and beheaded the Pale Orc. But the losses... Thorin looked over the battle field of Azanulbizar, seeing the dead, Dwalin and Balin, sobbing over the body of their father, Fundin. He himself was numb. His brother, gentle Frerin, who wanted so badly to go to war and fight, fought bravely and died for it. 

Með was inconsolable when she found out. 

In a fit, Thráin headed towards the entrance of the mountain, determined to take the prize denied his father and to avenge all those who lay dead on the field. As he headed up the way, his arm was caught in a mighty grip.

Dáin Ironfoot, his cousin and ruler of the Iron Hills, stood next to him, shaking his head. "Tha' Balrog still lives," he gasped. "Dinna go in. We have no' the strength fer it! Save it fer another time." 

"Where are we to go then?" Thráin spat. "I would not go to the Iron Hills and claim yours for the throne. Dunland is poor, too poor for the Kingship of Durin's Folk!" 

Dáin closed his eyes in understanding. Thráin told the truth, he wanted his cousin anywhere, save the Iron Hills. "Go to the Blue Mountains."

"There is no wealth in the Blue Mountains!" 

Neither were aware of Thorin listening in to the conversation, standing on a rock, pretending to survey the destruction. "There is iron!" he yelled over the din. "We can craft with iron." He leapt from the rock he stood on, the magnitude of what he had witnessed catching up to him. Reaching for his father, tears began to roll down his cheeks. "We should grieve our dead, my brother," he whispered. "But I want away from this wretched place and never consider it again. Let the Balrog have it." With that, he stormed off, to begin the order to retrieve of bodies of the dwarven warriors and prepare them for burial. 

He didn't realize he still carried the branch of oak that he used as a makeshift shield when his own shield shattered, to protect himself and he didn't hear the whispers of the survivors who saw him striding purposely through the remains of the battle, stopping to talk, take a moment, with the survivors and injured. 

_Oakenshield._

When they finally returned to Dunland, to grieve with the widows and to plan their move to the Blue Mountains, Thorin stood in front of the looking glass and began the arduous task of trimming back his beard, in remembrance and in honor of his grandfather and those who died or had their beards burnt off in the attack of Erebor, for as sure as he lived and breathed, Thorin knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all of Durin's Folk's problems were the fault of a fire-breathing dragon, who sat in their home and the Arkenstone planted firmly in the grasp of its claws. 

 

_tbc_

 

 _Derg vare kerhvil ewnva mag þan nin ó-hœgr kild!_ \- You were always nothing more than a difficult child!

No - _Ewn_

_Mota derg skeg sitja brina!_ \- May your beard stay burnt.

Next _næstr_

You must know your place - _Derg skale rofa derg legae_

nut - _hnut_

worm - _ormar_

Who is (be) king? - _Gwen va knaldkarl_

I - _Ag_  
my - _agmark_  
friend - _grek_


	13. 12 - The Streams shall run in Gladness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N - If you have not read 'Clamps' (DF81 - The Diary of Aefre of the Wold) you might want to do so before starting this chapter. It will be one of the later chapter of The Diary. 
> 
> And again, I want to thank everyone for reading.

_**Chapter 12** _

_**The streams shall run in gladness** _

_Human Age Equivalent - 36_

 

_He was dreaming of her again._

He jerked awake and decided this bothered him.

_He was dreaming of her again._

He was certain it was because he was traveling, that he was moving closer to home. When he was tired, bringing the season cycle to a close, she-

_He was dreaming of her again._

\- would invade his deepest, weakest spot and churn his memories up all over again. It made the dwarf to not want to sleep, fight it, which only made the problem worse. Despite all, everything, he could see her face, _smell_ her, her perfume, the taste of the glistening of her perspiration between her breasts. 

He gazed to the right, searching for his pony. Very quietly, the small equine stood, her head low. The Rohirrim knew horseflesh, their eye for leg lines and stout hearts was legendary. They knew the blood lines of their horses as well, if not better, than their own. Thorin hated working for others, but his people needed food, clothing, farm animals of their own, a home of their own, and while the Blue Mountains would eventually make do, they needed to rebuild it now that they had reclaimed it.

Much like they would eventually have to reclaim Erebor. But that time was not now. For now, he had to swallow his stubborn, dwarvish pride and do what was necessary to see them through the winter.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/12Thorin-Rohan1_zpsabce9a7e.jpg.html)

He discovered the Rohirrim were an honest people. He would have to tell Dwalin, the smiths, to head towards the south in the spring. He would also tell them to be prepared to look up, up, up at these tall, blonde giants. They were also generous with what they had. They paid well, if one could tolerate forging horseshoes day in and day out. And swords. They had a love for swords. And stirrups and bits.

The pony snorted; obviously Thorin's half awake thoughts were disturbing her. Blósma. Thorin snorted in response. That's what The Marshal said her name was; Blósma. Blossom. 

He didn't expect the additional gift of the equine. He had been paid well, double his asking price, openly welcomed back in the spring, if he so desired. 

Considering the weight of the pouches he kept on him at all times, he just might so desire. Thorin Oakenshield had a niggling inkling that the fact the Marshal knew he was the heir of the exiled King Under the Mountain, of the line of Durin, might have had something to do with it. 

What was that saying the Rohirrim had? _Do not look a gift horse in the mouth._ He supposed he better not. Thanks to the gift of... Blossom... Thorin would return to Gin's arms faster than he expected.

The sun would be up to soon. With a sigh, he rolled over, one ear tuned to unnatural sounds, the rest of his body wearily demanding sleep.

_**~~~...~~~** _

It was well past dark when Thorin arrived at the entrance of Tumunzahar. The doors should be shut, he actually expected to beat on the door to gain entrance, but instead, Thorin found them open, the way lit.

"Have you no sense?" he growled at the guard, as he trudged up the outer corridor. "I could be an orc, a goblin," 

"Or an old friend we have been watching for for days." Balin's voice rang clear through the night, the outline of his silhouette bold against the light. "As if we would lock you out, Thorin Oakenshield." 

"Besides," Dwalin's voice came from behind him, "I've been shadowing you, watching yer back all day." The hearty dwarf clapped Blósma on the rump, causing her to snort. "An' a good thing, too." 

"Orcs?" 

"Thieves." 

The two made their way into the mountain, the pony's steps picking up as she walked into the warm light. As soon as they were inside, the gates and great doors were shut, the sound echoing through the caverns. Thorin dismounted, gave orders to a young dwarf to take the pony to the stable, after he, Balin, and Dwalin removed his packs. "Why didn't you tell me you were following me?" Thorin made his way towards the cavern designated as his and Gin's. "We'd have walked together, passed the time." Balin joined them, quietly listening.

"Aye an' paid not so close attention t'theives on t'road." He slugged Thorin good naturedly on the arm. "How'd y'fare in Rohan?" 

Thorin grinned. "Well enough. I would suggest any of our people who do not mind making horse shoes, horse tack, or swords, nonstop and daily, barter for work in their larger garrisons." With this, he pulled two large coin pouches from beneath his coat. "This was for one sword. Special for the Marshal's son." He nodded at his shoulder. "There are seven more just like it in the bottom of one bag, four in the other. Rohirrim are a generous, honest people." 

Dwalin grinned. "An' their women?" 

Thorin turned his back on his friend, winking at Balin, and smiling quietly. "I did not pay much attention." 

Dwalin's hand clasped him on the shoulder. "Thorin, yer married, not dead." 

"They are tall, like their men," Thorin softly admitted over his shoulder. "Very tall."

"Eh. They're all th' same height when yew lay 'em down," Dwalin guffawed. Now Thorin's shoulders were shaking with mirth. "But do they bake good cookies?" 

"I have supped at the Marshal's table. Their fare is hearty enough." He stopped and turned to look at Balin, who had said nothing. "How fares the mountain?" 

Now it was Balin's turn to smile. This Son of Durin was growing into a fine dwarf. The qualities Balin saw on the Battlefield of Azanulbizar, continued in his concern for his people. "Much of the cleanup from the flooding is complete." He dipped his head. "The miners are anxious to begin digging; see what lies down in the rock. Gloin found a large seam of iron last week. The main forge is ready to be fired up. We waited for you."

Thorin stopped. "Why did you wait for my return to fire up the forge? The sooner even one is lit, the sooner our people will return to their livelihood, their lives."

"Your father. The king wanted to wait for you," Balin whispered. "Truth be, had you not returned by the end of the week, we would have tried to light them, but he desired to wait, for you to be here." He tapped the saddlebags on Thorin's wide shoulders. "So, you have done well?" 

"Well enough. Have the others returned?" 

"Aye, you were the last." 

Thorin kept moving, his aim - to get to his wife - clear. "Get them and their earnings together. We must purchase food, herbs, necessities for the winter. Animals. Until we get the forges working and can fully access the mines, we will have to purchase what we need. I hope we have enough." Continuing to move deeper into the mountain, he nodded to Dwalin. "How did you fare? Any caravans needing protection to their destination?" 

"Aye. A group of us found good work. Several would like our services before the first snowfall. Good pay an' no, yew'll not join us!" The dwarf stuck a thick finger up before Thorin could say a word. "Yew've been gone from yer wife long enough and she needs yew."

Thorin's heart immediately stopped. "She is ill?" Gin had never truly recovered from her miscarriage when Smaug ransacked Erebor. Twice more, in their travels, she miscarried. Thorin vowed to not touch her, but she was having none of that. She refused the midwives herbal teas, remedies to keep her from becoming pregnant. The only argument he had had with her since their marriage was over the herbs and roots to prevent such from happening. She swore once she was settled, she would be fine. Traveling was not good for carrying a babe, regardless of how tough the dwarf was. Even the midwives and healers agreed with that logic. It was part of the reason why Thorin took work so far from home. Much better he soil the furs than lose his wife. 

"Gin... is Gin." For the first time in ages, Balin weathered an angry Thorin stare. "Give me your packs and go to her. You can unpack tomorrow. She isn't dying and she hasn't wasted away." He did not tell his friend that she was still pale, still weak, still thin for a dwarf. Even a dwarf-lady.

Quickly the transfer was made and Thorin rushed off, making his way to his personal chambers. On his way, he took notice of the halls, the caverns. Much had been done in his absence, the dried mud, the dried seaweed. The Blue Mountains had been flooded by the sea during the War of Wrath in the end of the first age, killing many of the First Dwarves, the few survivors running to Khazad-Dûm. _'Funny,'_ Thorin thought to himself, ' _the First Dwarves ran from the this home to begin anew and now we return, running from another home, to begin anew again. How many times will we be forced to begin anew? Run in circles?'_

Soon Thorin was at his home, his chambers, the caverns set aside for him and his wife. He entered the main living area, to find her sitting in a chair, needlework in her lap, dozing lightly. He took the quiet moment to look at her, drink her in. 

_His Gin, his beautiful Gin, who was pale and too thin..._

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/12Gin21_zpsf0c0e209.jpg.html)  


"Are you a dream to taunt me or has my husband returned home?"

Thorin held out his hand, lifting her from her chair and into his arms. "I have returned home to taunt you."

She kissed him once. "That sounds about right." She crinkled her nose. "You smell of man and smithy and..." her sniff was audible, "horses?" 

Thorin shrugged as if this were an every day occurrence. 

Gin was studying him, much as he studied her moments before. "You are tired and hungry, I can see it. Let's draw you a hot bath, I'll heat up some homemade stew," Thorin was now growling in pleasurable anticipation, "and we'll talk about your adventures and where the kingdom of Erid Luin stands. Aye, I have sat in the meetings next to Thráin and your mother. I am well versed as to what is going on. Go," she pushed him towards the bathing chambers. "Get out of those clothes and naked into the tub!" 

"Are you sure bathing me is your only desire?" Thorin allowed her to push him towards the bath. 

The chambers echoed with her laughter. "Not on your life! I have many desires; all which you will meet tonight, if you are not that tired." 

With a whoosh, Thorin turned and lifted her over his shoulder. "Tired? I do not know the meaning of the word, wife," he lied.

_**~~~...~~~** _

Truth was, Thorin was exhausted and Gin knew it. As he leaned back in the wrought iron tub, the sigh he emitted was pained, worn out. He allowed her to sit behind him, take down tangled braids, and pull a boar's hair brush through it before washing it again and again. Thorin reveled in the feel of hot water drenching him, Gin's hands on him, his back, kneading tired muscles. He gloried in the gentleness of her touch as she caressed his neck, fingers wandering to his jaw line.

"When are you going to allow this to grow back?" Gin's fingers grazed his beard, the chin and jaw close clipped. 

"Soon." 

"How soon? Why do you trim it anyway?" Thorin opened his mouth to reply, but he heard her rise. "Oh, wait. The stew must be rolling by now." Closing his eyes, he could smell it; roasted meat with vegetables. He had not eaten well since he left Rohan. Thorin leaned back, sliding down further into the tub, his head back, hair, draping the outside of the tub. He heard her, the smell of the stew strong. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she scooted the stool to the side of the tub, before she settled into it, a large bowl in her hands. "Oh damn." Thorin's eyes widened at the rare usage of a curse word coming from his wife. "I forgot the eating knife!" 

"Do not worry with it." He reached across and dipping his fingers into the hot food, picked up the first thing his fingers grasped - a chunk of meat, tender and malleable. It was sizzling and he put the meat and fingers quickly into his mouth, burning not only the digits, but his tongue as he inhaled and swallowed it whole.

Gin watched him with amusement while her husband hissed and sucked air, trying to cool his mouth down. She set the bowl on the floor. "Why don't we let that cool for a few moments." She reached across and took his face in her hands. "Why do you keep it trimmed? You are a prince and should have braids and carved runes and jewels woven in, chevrons of mithril and gold, befitting your station."

"I would have been beaten and robbed on my trip home had I had such in my beard." 

"Thorin!" 

He now stroked his wife's face, his own fingers fondling the braids at her jaw line. "You more than deserve sapphires that match your eyes for your beard." 

"Balin found a horde of sapphires in one of the lower trenches last moon," she grinned, those eyes Thorin adored lighting up. "And you are changing the subject!" She turned and picked up the bowl, blowing across the top. Seeing it was still quite hot, she set it back down.

"I made a promise, Gin. I took an oath. You know that." 

Eyes that had been sparkling in mirth a moment before were now dark. "Thorin. We have a home here in Ered Luin, here in Tumunzahar. There is talk of going up into Gabilgathol, seeing how far the tunnels between the two cities are still open." Her words were like water falling on stone. "Thorin! You have avenged your grandfather's death at too great a cost."

"The Pale Orc cut off-"

"Yes, I know your grandfather was beheaded and his death had to be avenged!" she interrupted. "And you avenged it! Thorin," her voice dropped into a hoarse whisper at his name. "At too great a cost. It is done! Let it be done!" She bit her tongue, almost telling him how relieved she had been when he had survived the Battle of Azanulbizar and thanked Mahal for taking his brother Frerin, rather than her husband. She looked down, squelching the desire to tell him how much she enjoyed his taking of her while still in a battle fury. Somehow... "I remember when we were small dwarflings, you would brag that one day, you would have a beard as thick and jewel-laden as Thrór's. It is time!"

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/12Thorinbeard1_zps94551edd.jpg.html)  


"Megin," he began softly, "I will decide when it is time-"

"On occasion, your father is lost within himself and your mother worries!" 

Thorin sat up, the sound of the water moving in the tub, loud in the room, his voice a low, if controlled thunder. "You complain about me changing the subject, when you interrupt me at every turn." He turned, leaning powerful arms on the side of the tub. He nodded towards the bowl in the floor. "I am newly home and I do not wish to argue or have any sort of disagreement with you. Perhaps next week we can have a rousing fight, if you wish, but not now." His eyes rose, the fire behind the two of them reflected in his irises. "Right now, I am hungry." 

Gin recognized _that_ look. "Really?" 

"Really." He jutted his chin towards the bowl. "Feed me." 

Slowly, so as not to spill any of the cooling stew, Gin leaned over, taking hold of the bowl. "Do you want me to feed you?" 

"Aye." 

"Hmmmm." Placing the bowl in her lap, Gin dipped her fingers in, grasping a large carrot. She allowed it to drip, turning it so the juices from the broth covered her fingers. 

"Giiiiiinnnnnn..." It was a growl.

"Is my favorite dwarf hungry?" Her voice was a low croon. 

"I'd best be your only dwarf," Thorin retorted, but not angrily. "Do you want your dress wet?" 

Now the smolder that was in Thorin's eyes, was also in Gin's. "Not particularly. Why?" 

"Take it off and join me." Again, he nudged towards the bowl. "Bring the food with you." He watched eagerly as she stood up and began to peel her clothing off. "Is there enough for two?" 

"We'll find out." Her shoes and stockings were being kicked to the side and her dress went over her head. As she struggled with the ties over her face, Thorin took the moment to peruse her body. 

Dwarf women, were short and stocky; built close to the ground, like their male counterparts, but Gin was thought to be petite, even by dwarven standards and Thorin was considered quite tall. Only one other dwarf came near him for height and that was Dwalin. Dwarves were also compactly built, thick with muscle and brawn and very agile. 

But Gin was thin for a dwarf. She was fragile and while Thorin gazed upon the love of his life, he came to the conclusion that she was not taking in enough nourishment and that he best stay home this winter at least, and feed her. Dwalin was right. Elves might like their females thin and delicate, but a dwarf-

"You are looking at me as if I were a kvistr." 

His eyes drew slowly up, heating her, inch by inch. "You are no elf-maid, thank Mahal. Feed me." 

Grabbing the bowl, she stepped over the rim of the tub, mindful of her husband's body, which was so much wider and thicker than hers. As she settled on his thighs, she wiggled to make herself comfortable. "Get me with child and I will fatten up quickly." 

 

Thorin was occupied, his attention on the bowl. He dipped in, found a chunk of meat with dripping fat. "I wish to speak to the healer first." He held the roast in front of her mouth. "Open up." 

Realizing if she opened her mouth to speak, he would simply shove the food in, she did as he bid, enjoying the fare and licking the drippings from his fingers. "My turn." She then dipped her own fingers and fished out a large chunk of potato, relishing the feel of his teeth on the tips of her fingers. Thus they continued back and forth, nipping and sucking, sharing the meal, much like they had the day they truly married.

And when the last piece was removed and placed in Gin's mouth, Thorin set the bowl on the stool, kissed the juices from her lips and chin and thrust upwards, setting her firmly on him. In the steaming heat of the fire and the tub, his mouth found her ear, he nipped, teased along the edge of her beard. "I have missed you, wife." His hands moved down her back, his fingers confirming what his eyes told him; his wife was too thin, not as healthy as she would like to pretend. As he pressed onwards, glorying in her heat, his hands finding her hips, his fingers finding the cleft, digging in, finding her, finding them. 

He waited, listened for her to come to the mountain peak, her fingers clinging to his shoulders, crying out in his ear. He waited hard within her as her cry tapered off, before pressing up, moving her hard against him and as he himself, reached his peak-

"THORIN! NO!"

\- he lifted her up and off, spending himself in the bathwater, while his wife cried her frustration attempting to climb back on. He released her, cupping her with one hand, using the other to cover, press himself against his torso, feeling his own throbbing release.

He waited until his breathing returned to normal, became aware of her crying in frustration.

"Why?"

He set her back, hating himself for what he had done, but knowing deep down, it was for the best. As he lifted her up, he himself stood up, the cooling water now uncomfortable. With his foot he turned the knob, setting it to drain. 

"Why?" 

"Because," he picked her up and set her over. "Because I love you." 

_tbc_

_kvistr_ \- twig


	14. 13 - The Lakes shall shine and burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissue warning

_**Chapter 13** _

_**The Lakes shall shine and burn** _

__  
Age Equivalent; 35 to 3 years after Kili's birth.

 

Traveling cost money. Every one was aware of it. It would cost money for food, lodging, if available. The wagons used to leave Esgaroth were in need of repair, upgrading. Many nights, in the cold, with snow piled on the panes, the dwarves discussed their options, what they expected to find, what they might find, what they would probably find. The move was the easiest part to arrange; the arrival? That was the great unknown. 

But dwarves were thrifty, innovative, industrious, and, if anything, many looked forward to the adventure. 

Thorin, among others, worked many months in Rohan. There was no living to made in Dunland; the hills were poor in gems and minerals and the people of Dunland, poorer. Gin remarked often that had the Rohirrim knew how poor their northern neighbors were and aided them, perhaps the Dunlandings would not feel the need to hassle or steal from them. 

Thorin thought differently. The Dunlindings were an envious people, wanted what others had and used any excuse to take it.

The Horselords paid well, appreciative of the Dwarves' crafting skills. Others, like Dwalin, hired out as mercenaries, guarding merchants, their caravans. The Dunlandings were suspicious, secretive, and the Dwarves kept to themselves, coming down from the hills to barter for necessary goods. When traveling, they stayed away from settlements, curious eyes. It was safer. 

As soon as the snows receded, what was left of Durin's Folk moved to the west.

_**~~~...~~~** _

If one asked Thorin, when it was over, he would state quite emphatically that gaining access to Erid Luin was the easiest part about the first season of returning to the Blue Mountains.

Few had escaped the flooding and now, just as few were returning. The fear of caverns turned into underground pools kept not only the Dwarves, but others, from coming back, exploring. 

Not that there was much to steal. Iron.

Lots and lots of iron. Veins of it. 

The sea had withdrawn, drained out through the lowest caverns. Or perhaps it had evaporated. In the reshaping of the earth, Mahal saw fit to craft a river of fire - a great forge - through the lowest of the lower cavern, keeping the main inner core of the mountain warmer than the summer. 

There was mud, seaweed, bones of fish and other... things... littering the cavern floors. 

Bones of men... elves... dwarves. Many, many dwarves.

And mud. So much mud. Dried like mortar. 

The forges, equipment left behind in the rush to evacuate, were rusted, some beyond recognition as to what they had been. 

"Ah, laddie," Balin whispered, his thumbs tucked in his belt, "we have work ahead of us." 

"But we have work." Thorin grinned. 

"Do not forget _who_ you are," his father reminded him. 

"I am a dwarf." Thorin turned a steely gaze to his father. "And a dwarf is not afraid of hard work!"

And work, they did.

It took years, mostly spent cleaning and shoveling. The forges proved difficult to fire, so much sludge blocked the vents. Word spread through out Lindon, the Grey Havens, and Eriador, that the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, Erid Luin, had returned.

One of the first things the Dwarves did was repair and rebuild the gates. Thorin was concerned as he and others had to leave several times to work in other lands and, as they were so few, protection was high on his list of worries. The entrances had been all but destroyed, the hidden door in sad, sad shape. But eventually, the Great Doors were repaired and this alone raised the spirits of the Dwarves. 

Another worry had been food; however, they found that game on the west side of the mountain forest was plentiful and the soil on the east side rich with nutrients. Planting began the moment they arrived. 

And there was iron. So much iron. 

Tumunzahar was cleared first. It took the better part of three years, the bones and remains taken down to the Great Forge, ancient spirits blessed, praised, and released. 

The most challenging struggle was the lighting of the main forge. Mahal, Thorin remembered that struggle well. Days and days of attempts, and trials, clearing vents and chimneys...

But the feast they had once it was lit...

And when it was lit, the fireflies returned... and the Dûm - the Great Mansion of Tumunzahar was lit as it had not been lit in six thousand years. 

But it was not Erebor and deep inside, Thorin knew it. 

And Thráin silently wept.

Small conclaves of other Dwarves, whose ancestors had not followed Durin's Folk to Moria and then on to the Grey Mountains, returned when they heard the Iron Mines were reopened. Their people had returned. Many had wandered south, into the Grey Havens, in the southern portions of Erid Luin, Rohan, clinging to the shadows of the White Mountains. Many of these Dwarves answered Thorin's call. There were small conclaves of Dwarven Tribes in Langstrand, in the Pennath Gellin, Ered Nimrais, willing to finally join their brethren, so long separated. 

And an iron vein was tapped; so large, the dwarves knew they would be pulling it out of the mountains for hundreds of years. 

It was remembered these mines and miners crafted weapons of great renown, including Narsil, the Great Sword of Numenorean Kings. Thorin threw himself into the forging, the smithing. He temporarily forgot he was a Prince, the King's heir. 

Thráin stewed, angered there were few jewels or gemstones, fewer precious metals or mithril. He now wore the last Dwarven Ring of Power and the Arkenstone began to call to him... beckon him. Like his father, he could now 'hear' the mithril singing from the Misty Mountains, Khazad-dûm crying out to him and worse, the Arkenstone sobbed, accusing him of abandoning it, sacrificing its beauty and power to the dragon, Smaug. 

Thráin yearned for home. 

His youngest child - Dís - fell in love with a dwarf her age, one who had never seen Erebor, could not imagine the wonders of her childhood home. Hǫggva's forefathers had journeyed south into Belfalas, near Dol Amroth, where they built and maintained the granite halls of the palace, libraries and statues. The exiled Dwarves of Erebor relished this young love, proof they would survive and grow strong again. It was if it were a promise of spring.

There was mention of moving the kingship back to Tumunzahar. 

Thráin put it off. There were other things to worry about, consider. Besides, there was no Arkenstone. 

The great tunnels and passages to Gabilgathol, the great Dwarven city to the north were cleared. More bodies were found, more bones sent to the Great Forge, more spirits sent to Mahal to his Hall of Waiting. Finally, Gabilgathol's forges were cleaned, vented...

More iron was found and a few - a very few - precious gemstones.

Gin, in determination of providing an heir to the throne, became pregnant, this time almost carrying to term, but miscarrying yet again, much to hers and Thorin's heartbreak. Her arms ached and she couldn't explain her pain to anyone, or so she thought.

But time moved on and as the years passed, the mines grew. Again, the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains were forging axes, both for work and for weapons, pikes, daggers, swords. Plate armor, shields, and helmets. They had work, there was work, and they prospered, but it wasn't like Erebor. There was no great wealth. 

Dís married her granite carver. And loved him. 

She had a son. Fili. Golden, the dwarfling walking early and looking so much like the uncle he would only meet after he passed.

She then had a second son. Kili. As dark as his brother was light. And doted on, for his smile hung the moon. 

And Gin grieved, wept in Thorin's arms late at night, praying and crying to Mahal for a child to call her own.

_**~~~...~~~** _

Two years after Kili's birth, Með, Thráin's beloved mate, went to sleep next to her husband and did not wake up. It was a shock to Thráin, who could not imagine a life without his beloved. For a time, Thorin and Dís feared their father would follow her, take her body and jump into the Mahal's Forge that ran deep beneath the mountain. The King went through the stages of grief; disbelief, despair, anger, and then acceptance of the inevitable. At her husband's request, they took her down to the fires and set her free, watching her spirit rise with the embers to go to the Halls prepared for them by Mahal.

Dís and Thorin grieved as well. Their mother had been a stately Dwarrow, respected and beloved by all. 

Thráin was as stone, carved in the hardest granite. His children, his people tiptoed around him. Thorin did not recognize the dwarf as the father he grew up revering and worshiping. He became unreachable. He hated their circumstances, hated the loss of Erebor, the gold, hated everything. More and more of the ruling of the mountain fell to Thorin.

In the spring, Thráin disappeared.

_**~~~...~~~** _

"Gone?" Thorin rolled from the furs, causing Gin to mumble in her sleep. He patted her on her behind. "Shhh." She was showing early signs of pregnancy again and his heart seized at the thought of her enduring another miscarriage.

He could not bear watching her suffering another loss and truth be told, he could not bear it either. 

But now, he had a serious problem. He grabbed his leggings and pulled them on, unmindful of the guard in his room. "Has anyone roused Dwalin? Balin?" 

"Someone else has gone to wake them," the guard whispered. "Would you like anyone else?" 

Thorin pulled the rawhide belt around his waist, grabbing a tunic from the chair. Crooking his finger, he beckoned the sentinel to follow him from the sleeping chamber to the main room, shutting the door softly behind him. "Trackers. Our best trackers. Call the guard from the main gate. Have them meet me in the King's quarters." 

Within ten minutes, more than a dozen dwarves, including the sons of Fundin were standing in the King's Chambers. The guard at the front gate was young, originally from Dol Amroth, not an Erebor refugee, and shaking in his boots. The Prince of Erebor terrified him. 

"I wasna asleep, I swear it." The dwarf was damn near stammering, sweat dripping from beneath his helm. "He dinna use the main gate. I was scanning the tree line an' saw movement." He dipped his head at Thorin's glower. "I recognized the King's armor. Tha's how I knew 'twere him." He looked back up, more sweat falling from his brow and dripping into a newly formed beard. "I called out, but he kept movin', as if he dinna hear me." 

"How long ago?" 

"I sounded the alarm immediately! I swear it!" 

The youngster now had drops of perspiration trickling down his braids and onto a sparse - by dwarven standards - beard. Thorin saw the terror in the young one's eyes and reached out to reassure him, noting that the dwarf flinched, as if he expected to be struck. "I am sure you did. How long ago and who stands guard now?" 

"Steinn does, from Erebor," Balin spoke up. "He says had the boy not seen the shadow in the woods, he would have missed the king himself. Thrain hasna been gone moren half an hour, at the most." He smiled benignly at the watchkeeper. "You have done well, young Standa." 

"Grab packs, provision. Group into clusters of three and head after him. Can you be ready in ten minutes?" The group nodded. All dwarves were packed at the ready to leave, hunt, at a moment's notice anymore, as they had ever been. "Good. I will meet you at the gates. You," he pointed at Standa, "have earned the rest of the night-"

"But I want to go!" Suddenly, he wasn't wheezing so much anymore, nor sweating. "My father was a tracker and he taught me as well." 

"Is your father here?" 

"Aye." 

"Wake him. Bring him as well." 

The group dispersed, all heading in different directions. Thorin re-entered his and Gin's chambers, to find the rooms lit, Gin up and his backpack readied with his ax and sword. 

"Do you want arrows as well?" She set down a rucksack, filled with Mahal knew what and two water skins. 

Thorin shook his head. "My father has gone on a journey and has decided not to take anyone with him." He moved passed her into their sleeping chambers, grabbing clothing suited for heavy travel.

"He is not himself," Gin whispered. She turned and watched Thorin's shadow play along their bedroom wall. "He mumbles to himself." She lifted sad eyes to her husband, hunting him out. "He hates what his greed is doing to him. He hates the Ring of Power he wears, he hates his crown." 

"And yet he falls deeper and deeper into sickness." Thorin's voice echoed from the semi-darkness. There was a thud, the sound of a body banging into a sturdy piece of furniture. "OW! Mahal's Balls!" 

"THORIN!" Finally Gin went into the room, lighting lamps and pulling a few things from baskets. She tossed a heavy coat to him. "It is still chilly in the night and you will be traveling through brush and Mahal knows what." She stopped his retort and shook a finger at him. "Do not start with me about the heartiness or stubbornness of dwarves; I know this for fact." 

He caught her gently by the wrist. "Some are more hearty and stubborn than others, beloved." His voice was a caress. "When I return, we will speak of the secret you are keeping from me." He kissed her before she could respond. "I know the signs as well as you now. Do not insult me by saying you did not know." With that, he picked up the satchels and left, headed to the front gate. 

For some days, no one saw braid nor hair of the trackers, the king, or the prince. Outwardly, his wife was a paragon of serenity and stout hope, but Gin fretted privately, as did Dís and Thorin's nephews. 

By week's end, most of the trackers had returned, coming up with nothing. As the sun set on the sixth day, Thorin trudged up the main walkway, exhaustion on his face. Upon hearing that her husband had returned, Gin met him in the Main Entrance, embracing him. 

"You are tired, worn. What news of the king?" 

Thorin let her lead him back to their chambers, promising his father's advisors he would speak with them in the morning. Once the door was shut and their privacy ensured, Gin set food on the table while heating the water for a bath. Seeing the tired set of his broad shoulders, she poured warming, relaxing oils in the bath, watching as Thorin stuffed himself.

"You eat as if you've not eaten since you left."

"Only what you packed. We were busy moving through the lowlands, trying to catch my father." 

"Too busy to hunt food."

"Aye." He picked up the chalice of ale set before him with an appreciative grunt. Only when he was finished and was stripping his clothes off in a path to the bathtub did he speak. "Dwalin and Balin joined me. Dwalin is the best tracker we have and the brawniest arm." This was true. Dwalin's skills were better as a strong arm than a miner; the only dwarf Gin knew that was taller than her husband - who was very tall for a dwarf. The burly Ereborian was known to track the stealthiest wolf through the densest forest to his death. "I had no idea my father was still capable of moving so quickly. It took three days to catch up with him." Now stripped to his skin, Thorin climbed over into the tub and sank into gratefully.

"You didn't bring him back."

"No. He is determined to reclaim Erebor. He is traveling back, hoping the dragon is dead or he can convince the other dwarves to aid him in reclaiming it." He accepted the goblet of ale, freshly refilled. "There is a madness in his eyes, Gin. A different sort that my grandfather's." For a time, he stared off through the steam, at the rocky wall, while his wife sat next to him silently. "Balin and Dwalin have joined him, hoping to bring him to his senses. They would not have him travel alone."

"And you did not join him?" 

"And who would care for our people?" Finally Thorin sought out her face. "I hated leaving him behind. But he refuses to be king, so I must be in his stead. At least he agreed to allow Fundin's sons to join him. Twice," he snorted, "he called Dwalin, Fundin. I think it amused my friend." With that, he took his wife's hand, squeezing it. "I fear... I fear I will never see him alive again. I do not wish this burden." 

Gin sat quietly, knowing that words would not help her husband's situation. He would be damned by some of their people no matter what choice he made - to follow his father, leaving them leaderless, or returning back to Erid Luin as he had, leaving his father. At least Balin and Dwalin stayed with Thráin, keeping him as safe as possible. 

She prayed they kept him safe. The decision was a no win for Thorin, and they both knew it. There were those who would grumble regardless of what decision Thorin made. It was a shock when she felt Thorin's strong fingers caress her beard, finger the sapphire beads in the braids. "When did you plan to tell me?" 

Gin knew what he was talking about. He stated such before he left. She hung her head, peeking up, hoping that coy look would soften him. "I was not sure-"

"Do not lie to me." The rebuke was not sharp and stated with a smile.

"I was not sure," she reiterated firmly. Seeing he was not going to back down, Gin sighed. "I would have mentioned it by now. This is true, husband." 

Thorin snorted in what would have passed as ire to most. He stood up, the water cascading down his body and reached for a bath linen. He reached for the plug, before stepping out of the tub, leaving water everywhere, as was his wont. "We need to talk." 

"Should we not rejoice?" she snapped.

"GIN! We have discussed this!"

"No, we have not! _You_ made a decision and did not take my desires into consideration!" 

Thorin's look darkened. "I have taken your health, you very being into consideration because you refuse to do so!" This took her aback. Never had Thorin raised his voice to her and as he continued, his voice grew louder. "You have refused to use the herbs and lore to prevent a pregnancy and I have done everything possible to prevent it!"

"Thorin, I am your wife!" This stopped him for a moment. "It is my duty to provide you with an heir!"

"I have an heir!"

"You have nephews!" she cried. "Younglings I adore, as do you! But you need an heir of your girth, your body!"

"Gin-"

"You do not hear the whispers, see the pitying looks. Thorin, Prince of Erebor, heir to the throne choose a barren wife! A wife he should set aside-"

"No!"

"-Yes! A wife he should set aside so he can marry a fertile Dwarrow! They say you should take a mistress, anyone, to bear you a child! They say I am a failure of a wife, not fit to stand by your side!" 

Thorin's look grew darker. "Who is saying this? I will carve out their tongue!"

"I would not tell you!" Her voice fell. "I feel I am a disappointment to you."

He hung his head. Whether her words were true or not, they rang proper in _her_ mind. His wife, felt as a failure for something she could not control. Suddenly, things made sense. More times than he cared to count, he awoke in the night, to find his wife had hardened him in his sleep and was riding him to completion. As erotic as it had been for him, it now took on a more sinister, desperate meaning.

"Gin. before we married, I asked you if you would marry me if I were a simple miner. Do you remember your answer?" 

"Yes," she whispered. "I was furious you would think such." 

"Well then. If I knew then that bearing a child would be impossible for you, I would have married you anyway and I would be furious at anyone who said I should not chose you to wive. I am equally infuriated you would think such." He took both tiny hands in his huge one. "Listen to me. If you miscarry this babe and refuse to use the lore afterwards, we will take up separate apartments. I would rather spill my seed on the ground than worry for you losing yet another child. You mean more to me than an heir. Do I make myself clear?" 

"Aye." It was reluctant sigh. 

Gin was put to bed for the remainder of her pregnancy. She hated it, Thorin hated it, but if she were so determined to bear fruit...

Weeks passed. The mountain settled back into a routine, a routine that included a wandering king, and a prince who worried about his father and his people as much as he worried about his wife.

  
[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/13Thorinc1_zps3f3c65cb.jpg.html)

Late in the fall, Dwalin and Balin returned to the mountain, without Thráin. He wandered off and despite the brothers best efforts, no sign of him was found. Both were bereft.

A month after that, Gin miscarried again.

They called Thorin from the iron mine, where he was digging his frustration at the lack of information about his father out on a particularly deeply imbedded vein of iron. Tearing through the caverns, he arrived in his apartments to find healers, midwives, Dís, carrying bloody sheets from their chambers, the looks on their faces... he knew, he _KNEW_ this would be the last time. He entered the chamber, ignoring the basket with the small, yet perfectly formed baby girl, prematurely snuffed from life. 

"Thorin?" 

He made it to the furs, swallowing back. "Yes, Gin. I am here." He climbed in, not knowing what else to do. 

Gin reached up and stroked his cheek. "A girl. We have had a girl. I heard her cry. She is well?" 

Thorin's jaw flagged. He looked at Dís who shook her head. _No. The babe had not cried_ , but what need to tell his wife that. "She is beautiful, Gin. Just like her mother."

"You should name her." Her breath was light, a whisper. "You should name her." 

For a moment, Thorin looked upwards, focusing on the fireflies gathering in the upper reaches of the cavern. "Hyrr-hrjóta. We will call her 'Hyrr' for short." 

Gin snorted. "Only you... would name our... baby... 'Bug'." She snuggled into the embrace of her husband. "I am cold, Thorin. Why is it so cold?" 

He motioned for more furs and held her tight, waiting for that final breath.

And when it came, Thorin held on for some time, before rising from their bed. He looked in the basket, noting that yes, this little... bug... was definitely beautiful.

Then without saying a word, he went down into the caverns, ignoring the looks, the condolences from those he passed, to where they stored the granite and began to shape a coffin. 

_tbc_

 

_Steinn_ \- Rock, stone  
 _Hǫggva_ \- Carve  
 _Standa_ \- stand (firm) (v); get up; take up a position; be in a place   
_Tumunzahar._ \- south Dwarven strong hold of the Blue Mountains  
 _Gabilgathol,_ \- north Dwarven strong hold of the Blue Mountains  
 _Hyrr-hrjóta_ \- Fire-fly


	15. 14 - All sorrow fail and sadness

_**Chapter 14** _

_**All sorrow fail and sadness** _

Thorin was jarred from his darkening musings by an incessant smacking on his knee.

_Whap whap whap whap whap..._

He looked down to see his youngest nephew - Kili - looking up at him with dark eyes, a frown upon his small face.

Whap whap whap whap...

"Yes, Kili?" It was a whisper, a sigh.

The toddler put both hands in the air. Reaching. "Up! Up!" 

Thorin discovered ages past, when a young child demanded to be lifted up, you lift them up, so he did just that. But rather than be content with sitting on his uncle's lap, Kili struggled to stand, chunky hands on his shoulders and balancing on Thorin's thighs, so that he was eye to eye with his uncle. He stared at Thorin for some time, before reaching out, brushing chubby fingers across a trail of tears. He then stared at the moisture on his fingertips. He looked back up, the stern look turned softer, concerned, if it could be believed a toddler _had_ compassion. "Sad?" 

"Yes, Kili. Very sad." 

The child pressed further. "Hurts?" 

Thorin's eyes shut, more tears streaming. Words wouldn't come out due to the wretched lump in his throat, so he simply nodded. 

"Sowwy." 

Thorin's head dropped, finally sobs bursting forth, remembering to clutch the child to him so the dwarfling wouldn't fall. Kili watched this out-pouring of grief for some moments before doing the only thing he knew comforted him. 

He attempted to put his short arms around his uncle's broad shoulders and not quite making it. With Thorin's head unknowingly buried in the body of the little one, Kili began to pat. "Is okay. I here, I here. Is okay. All bedder. Aaaaall beddderrrrr." 

At that point, Thorin sputtered between laughing and crying. Here he sat, a well-known warrior of the dwarves, exiled heir to the Throne under the Mountain, killer of Orcs and Goblins, and a toddler was patting his shoulders, attempting to comfort him, telling him it was now all...

"Bedder?" 

Thorin looked up, looked into that bright, hopeful face, looking like an over-exuberant puppy. _So proud of himself._

"Aye," he managed to strangle out. "All better." Kili's face broke out in a grin. "Thank you."

Kili nodded to himself, as if he had accomplished something great - which to Thorin, he had. "Eat?" 

Thorin's stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten in days. Kili's stomach never seemed to be full. Setting the dwarfling down, Thorin stood up. "Go to the door." He watched as the child ran to the edge of the cavern and waited. He turned to the crypt and laid his hand on it. "I will be back. Let me know if you get cold." As he stepped towards the doorway, he scooped up his youngest nephew and walked into the light.

It was quiet for some minutes before a sigh settled on the cavern.

_Oh Mahal. Watch over my husband. Watch over Durin's Son..._

_tbc_


	16. Epilogue - At the Mountain King's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N - I want to thank all who read, I hope you enjoyed this. I'm going to sit back awhile and find the sunshine - and perhaps finish some things that have been neglected for a while...

_**Chapter 15** _

_**Epilogue** _

_**At the Mountain King's Return** _

_One year after the Battle of the Five Armies_

The processional slowly made its way up the long gangway. The guards at the entrance relaxed a bit when they realized it was a group of travel-weary dwarves, fellow brethren, kinsmen, most likely, rising from the ashes of Dale. It occurred to them to wonder and ask about the wagon they pulled behind them. As they drew closer and the wind blew the hood from the shortest one leading in the front, the captain of the guard recognized the dwarf, shock, dismay in his eyes. He turned to the dwarf next to him, a young dwarf, barely bearded. 

"Go," he whispered urgently. "Go quickly to King Dain. 'Tis Dís, Thorin Oakenshield's sister."

_**~~~...~~~** _

Dain Ironfoot refused to sit the throne in his kinswoman's presence. He was well aware that the only reason why he sat the throne at all was through the death of her brother and only two sons and he felt it rude to make much of it and to rub it in her face. So there were no stately robes or armor or jeweled crown to show his authority; simply two dwarves, kin, at the bottom of the stairs.

"I dinna know if I kin allow yew t'do this."

"I do not ask your permission." 

Dain winced. Dís had her brother's bearing, his coloring. Aye, her features were softer; she was considered to have been a great beauty among the Dwarves in her younger years, but time and death and war had taken its toll on her, and the truth was, Dain was willing to allow her desire. She was hard as granite and considering the Dwarf who stood next to her, still as hard and tough as Dain remembered him; no doubt the small entourage would be difficult to stop if anyone tried to stop them. It would cause an uproar and a sharp division and most likely revolt between the Erebor Dwarves and their Blue Mountain brethren. 

"How long 'ave ye been travelin', Dís?" 

She sighed and, in her silence, her bodyguard spoke. "Almost a year. We 'ave avoided the shadow, 'ave taken th' Old Forest Road of Mirkwood. We were snowed in at the High Pass of the Misty Mountains for some weeks." Dwalin's voice was still a deep rumble, respected even by those who only knew him by reputation.

The King Under the Mountain's face softened in understanding. "Yew are tired. Please, take food an, rest wit' us. We kin discuss-"

"There is nothing to discuss." Dís's voice was strong, despite her obvious exhaustion. "Long ago, I made my brother a promise. I have come to honor that promise and keep it." Now her head dropped. "I do not intend to spend more than one night in this place." Slowly, her eyes rose, taking in the rebuilt splendor of her childhood home. "This place has cost me dear, the lives of my ancestors, my brothers..." she drifted off, breathing deep before she continued, "... my sons." She turned and addressed Dwalin. "The walls haunt me, taunt me with its ugly reality. Truthfully, I do not wish to stay even this night. We will sleep in Dale."

"Dís," Dain leaned forward, his voice low, "please. Dale is unsafe an' unprotected." 

"Over the past year, I have spent the night in less savory conditions," she spat. 

"Dís," Dwalin's voice was now lower, cajoling even. "Please. I beg you reconsider. Accept his hospitality." 

Dís closed her eyes and thought for some moments, those in the cavern silent, waiting with held breath, before she reluctantly nodded. 

"Three nights." 

Now she looked at him in anger. "I do not wish to be here."

"I know. You are only here to honor the wishes of your brother. I know what a hardship this has been for you." With a tenderness no one would or could suspect, the warrior reached out and touched her chin, gently ruffling the fine down of her beard. "You are tired. This has been a long journey." Although he continued to face her, his eyes darted to Dain. "Staying with Balin in Moria was difficult. You are grieving. Let us grieve with you. The King will grant your request. He will not deny you." 

Dain attempted to continue to plead with her. Her request, while not unusual, had political insinuations and could cause a small scandal, something he knew Thorin, while living, could care less about. "Come, lass, eat. We will 'ave a banquet, a gwiil, food an' drink. We will rejoice in yer return, albeit temporary, to yer 'ome. We will sing, bring our instruments-"

"We will do this first. I will not be dissuaded nor put off." For a few moments, Dain and Dís stared at each other, as if to see who would submit. "Please. While I still have the strength."

Dain submitted.

He dropped his head and sighed. "No one is t' speak o' this. It'll no' be noted inna annals, histories, or sung in our songs. If anyone comes-"

"If anyone comes, they will find the vault of Thorin Oakenshield, the greatest Dwarf warrior of our Age and King under the Mountain. They will find the tombs of his nephews, Fili and Kili, who died bravely and honorably at his side, defending him, their home. They may still lay their wreaths of honor on their tombs and never know that nothing is inside."

Dain closed his eyes in defeat. "Which fired forge would you use?" 

When he opened his eyes and saw Dís's face, he stepped back in fear. "None of them. Take me into the depths of the mountain, to Mahal's Forge; down where the heart of fire flows."

_**~~~...~~~** _

Thorin and his nephews had been laid to rest, deep within the mountain. It took some time for the group to reach it; Thorin's sister moved slowly and several dwarves carried the boxes that the wagon they had with them. It was an arduous journey down the carved steps and into the burial chamber. The first thing Thorin's sister did upon reaching the floor, was to walk with such grace to the tombs of her sons, it took Dain's and Dwalin's breath away. She stood between them, one hand laid on each, her head bowed.

Whispering.

Dain cleared his throat. "Perhaps, yew would like this day t' mourn yer loved ones an' dew this thin' tomorrow. Or perhaps, yew would simply prefer t'simply put Gin inna tomb wit' Thorin-"

"He asked me to send him and Gin into the fires of the mountain together." Dis's voice was low, terse. It had the authority of her brother's. "No. He _told_ me... ordered me to send them to the fires of the mountain together. They have been apart too long and I will send them together to the Halls that Mahal has prepared for our brethren." Her fingers spread, clutched at the lids of her son's tombs. "And that is what I will do. Fili and Kili also." She turned, the gray streaks in her dark hair shining in the torch light. "They would hate to be left here alone. They traveled with him, to see this Erebor; he raised them on the stories, the songs of this place. Let them soar to the stars, together."

  
[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/16Thorinampnephews1_zps17ab98f2.jpg.html)

She dropped her head. "They always did everything together. Let them take this final journey as such." She pulled away from the sepulchers and turned to the males behind her. "Where are the burial shrouds?"

"Dís," Again, Dain attempted to stall her, stop her, anything. "We dinna have the proper tools down here t' remove th' lids." 

"We brought them," Dwalin hissed. "We made sure." With that, he pulled the lid from the first box, the skeletal body inside wrapped in an aging burial shroud of Thorin's royal blue standard. He reached into the side and began to pull out crowbars, other tools. "We came prepared fer yer stallin'." 

"There should be a proper ceremony-"

"Strange," Dís interrupted. "You said earlier that this was to be done in secret, so no one would know." 

Dain knew this was a losing battle. Aye, he could refuse her, refuse The Company; Balin was there, movement as swift and sure as ever as were Oin and Gloin. What looked like Gloin's young son - Gimli? - was also with The Company. All of them who fought Smaug, who survived...

"Balin." Of all of the dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield's Company, this one was the wisest. "'Tis been such a long journey for her."

"For all of us, King Dain." He shook his head. "She is as stubborn as any of that family. Best allow her her grief and her oath." He leaned over to whisper. "I will talk to Dwalin. If any can get her to stay and rest, he can." 

There were tools, heavy Dwarven blankets in the second chest. A bag filled with only Dís knew what. Several were at Fili's vault, the lid coming off with a grating screech. Dain flinched at the sound. He knew what Dís was doing; accepted it. Truly, he understood it. Many of his kin preferred this to burial; he himself had given similar instructions to his wife and children. But never had it been done so late after death. 

The lid off, Dwalin looked into it. He saw movement from the side of his eyes and he moved to cut her off. "Dís, you do not need to look." 

"Aye, I do. He has something I want. All of them do." She stepped up to the opened granite casket, into the face of her first born.

The Elves thought the Dwarves turned to stone upon their death, and while this was not quite true, they did look as if they had for a few years after their death. Fili's body had been cleaned, dressed so his wounds were not so evident. For a moment, Dís caressed the jaw of her son, lost in a time so long ago, before pulling a small knife from her belt. With a precise, swift move, she cut through one of his braids, severing it from the place above his ear. Tucking it into her belt, she smoothed his hair, to cover what she had taken. After looking at him again, her hands moved to the back of his head and removed the beaten hair clasp. She then stepped back and nodded to the males surrounding her. 

She watched as they carefully moved the body of her son to the large blanket spread out on the ground. She shook her head negatively when Dwalin removed his swords from the vault, instead, taking one of his smaller knives and motioned for Dwalin to return the others to the burial vault. "Have to leave something, my friend." Once the transfer was complete, she and Balin carefully wrapped the body, but not before she placed something into the roll, tucking it into his coat.

"Dís?" 

"Something that belonged to him as a child. He thought it was lucky growing up and decided not to take it on the quest as he was afraid it would be deemed childish." She swallowed a sob. "Perhaps, he should have taken it." 

She repeated the ritual with Kili, also taking a lock of hair, his hair clasp, and an arrow. As with Fili, she tucked something in with him as well.

Once the bodies were secure, Gimli took a long coil of rope from the second box. They then secured Fili and Kili above their head and below their feet. When that was completed, Dís rose and approached her brother's tomb.

Dain caught her by the elbow. "Dís. Yew dinna have t'dew this." He drew up, attempting to look menacing. "Yew kin jus' put 'er in wi' 'im!" 

"I made him a promise. Yes, I do." She motioned for the third crypt to be opened. Gently, the dwarves removed Orcrist, laid it and the lid on its side, next to the vault. With much purpose in her stride, she stood next to the granite sepulcher and looked in.

"Well, Thorin, you look better than I expected," she snorted humorously. "I love you and I miss you, but damn you, you miserable hrodi-flík, you promised you'd bring them back alive. I shouldn't be here and I'm so mad, I wouldn't do this, but Gin would haunt me to my dying days." The Dwarrow sighed heavily. "I fear her more than I fear you." She reached in and like, her sons, she clipped the long braid lying so neatly behind his ear. Unlike her sons, she left the ear cuffs, the hair clasp. When she reached down to his hand, to take his ring, she stopped, eyes opened in shock, the surprise finding Dwalin.

"Wha is it, lass?" 

She jerked once, twice... three times, before smiling angrily. As whatever her brother held tight came loose, she then lifted it to the light, inspecting the jewel. 

"The world. You destroyed the world for this. This was _not_ worth more than my world." The Arkenstone shone brightly in her hand.

Dain moved forward, held back by Dwalin and Balin. "Lass, ye kinna mean-"

"Oh no," she looked hard at her kinsman. "I mean to leave it here in this empty tomb, where it belongs." She nodded to the sword. "I mean to leave that as well. As you said, no one needs to know. Save us." She then reached back into the coffin and removed her brother's ring, putting it with the jewelry she had removed from her sons in a leather pouch hanging from the belt of her waist. 

As they had done with her sons, they removed Thorin from his tomb, laying him on an elaborate blanket, an ornate shroud, Dís had labored over their entire journey. She had made her sons' as well, things of beauty, to be sure, but this one was a mantle fit for a king. When the chore was completed, the dwarves with Dís labored to reseal the tombs, making sure the left behind personal items were put back within, Dain personally making sure The Arkenstone lay in the heart of Thorin's vault. Once they were resealed, Dwalin gently laid Orcrist back on Thorin's lid. It was if the sepulchers had never been disturbed. 

With great care, they then opened the wooden casket in which Gin was wrapped. They lifted her, rotting furs and all, the distant memory of her fear of cold reawakened when they unfastened her tomb how many moons ago. During the trip, they debated leaving her in the furs, but the consensus was to unwrap her and Thorin's last little Bug to rest in his embrace one last time. 

So they unwrapped the furs, coming down to her linen burial shroud, yet another piece of artwork threaded by Dís. Laying the bag next to Thorin, they sliced it, rent it apart; despite the decomposition of the body, the skeleton still had the long, blonde braids with sapphire beads that she had worn since their marriage and that Thorin personally placed when he prepared her body for burial. 

"Ah, she were a wee lass." No one knew or asked Dain if he spoke of Gin or little Bug. 

Once all three bodies were placed next to each other, Dwalin and Gloin tied them at head and foot and stepped back as Dís sewed the bag shut. She then sewed her sons as well, a quick whipstitch not meant to last, simply hold together until the shrouds hit the flames. With a nod, all three bags were lifted reverently and taken down further, further, into the mountain, to an open cavern where the heat was so intense, a mere man could not have borne it. 

Truth be told, it was difficult for dwarves to bear it, but they could for a time, for this was Mahal's Forge, where the fire and molten lava ran freely, gold and other precious gems, that which made the Durins wealthy beyond belief, was crafted by the Vala for what the dwarves believed was this very purpose. 

Dís remembered being here, once, so many decades ago, watching warriors go into the flames after their death. She had been so very young. For a moment, she was lost in the memory...

"Dís? Which one first?" 

She appeared lost in thought for a moment. "Both. Fili and Kili. Together." She watched as the Dwarves, Dain included, lifted the two and stepping out onto the ledge heaved the bodies into the molten river. 

Neither made it far before a flare leaped from the chasm below, licking the ornate shrouds and setting both aflame. For a moment, the bodies of the two young dwarves were lost, lost in smoke and haze before...

"Kin ye see 'em, lass? Kin ye?" Dain pointed up, a single fire sprite hovering at the top of the cavern, as if waiting...

...where the second sprite joined him. They hovered, played for a moment, before seeming to stare down at the small crowd beneath them. 

"I see you, my sons. Go on with you," Dís whispered. "Go wait with your father, your grandfathers. Wait for the time to rebuild Middle Earth as Mahal sees fit." The moment the words left her lips, the two seemingly nodded before rising, finding the vent and escaping into the starlit night. 

It took a moment for her to compose herself. 

She nodded to the third and final sack. Both Dain and Dwalin did the honors; kin and friend, as it should be. As with her sons, the single sack was thrown into the river, this one dropping below the ledge beyond sight. 

There was a hiss when the cloth and bodies met the fire.

The first sprite was tiny, rather small compared to the ones who went before, but quick in its dance. She hovered above those watching, darting playing in the stalactites in the roof of the cavern. 

She was waiting, just as she had always waited for him. 

Finally a second... slower, heavier flame rose from the depths. Twice, it halted, hung in the air waiting for the spark that followed him to catch up, the patience he so rarely showed, evident now. As this larger sprite rose in the cavern, all watched as this giant spirit reached the one of his wife, watched as he circled her, ensuring it was truly her, and then at the spinning dance the two began, encircling each other until they rolled so fast, there was no way to tell one from the other. The spark joined them at some point, the spinning now dizzying to watch, as it rose, finally lifting through the natural chimney of the mountain and rising out of sight. 

There was not a dry eye in the cavern. Not even Dwalin's. 

"Dwalin," Dís was beside him, under his protective arm. "They are happy, again, aren't they?" 

"Aye, lass. They are together and they are happy." 

She sniffed once. "Lay with me tonight. Stay with me. We will comfort each other." 

Dwalin stiffened. For many decades, he had loved her, loved her when he left the mountain to work, loved her when she married another, loved her when she bore another's children, loved her when her husband died in a warg raid, loved her as she grieved, loved her as he watched her sons go on the adventure of a lifetime and loved her as he watched them die. For so long, he had waited...

"I will not lay with you one night, Dís," he whispered. "I will lay with you for as long as you and I live or I'll not lay with you at all." He looked down at her. "I will have all of you or none of you."

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/ZeeDippyVessel/media/Fic%20Artwork/16dwalin1_zps7c0f4fb9.jpg.html)  


Dís seemed to weigh his words. "Shall we do this officially? The only ring I have is Thorin's."

"That will do fer now. I slid Gin's from her hand when we removed her body. When we return, we will have our own rings made and put these away."

"And thank them for the loan," Dís finished with a smile. 

"I dinna think they would mind." Taking her by the hand and kissing her forehead, Dwalin looked up, finding Dain. Getting his attention, Dwalin spoke up loudly, enough to be heard through the roar of the fire. "So Dain, do yer hospitality and gwiil include a sword and a broom?" 

Dain began to laugh, starting with a low chuckle and building up to a dwarven roar. As he walked by the now empty granite coffins, he snatched Orcrist from the lid. "C'mon laddie. We'll bring it back eventually." 

_fini_

_Begun 10/08/13_  
 _Fini 02/11/14_

_hrodi-flík_ \- snot rag

Translators used:

http://elanthipedia.org/w/index.php/Dwarven_Dictionary,_Common_to_Haakish_%28book%29

http://www.vikingsofbjornstad.com/Old_Norse_Dictionary_E2N.shtm#c


End file.
